


Rise Out Of The Deep

by ScullyLikesScience



Series: Out Of The Darkness, Into The Light [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Bisexual Jon Snow, Breeding, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings Realization, Gratuitous Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Jon Snow/Cersei Lannister, Implied Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Implied Jon Snow/Gendry Waters, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, Pining, Political Jon Theory, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 07, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Romantic Tension, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Triggers, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-06-12 07:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15334521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyLikesScience/pseuds/ScullyLikesScience
Summary: Still coping with disappointment, loss, and the aftermath of past traumas, Jon and Sansa struggle to accept happiness. But with the help of his former steward and squire, Satin, they soon learn that physical love means partnership, not ownership, and appreciation, not possession.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wightjon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wightjon/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jon Snow or Sansa Stark or any others that appear in the ASOIAF/GoT universe. The characters in this fic don't belong to me, nor does canon from the books/TV show that I make reference to within this story. All credit goes to GRRM or D&D.
> 
> Sidenote #1: It's not exactly necessary to read parts one and two of this series to get the gist of what's happening here, but it does provide some insight into Jon's mindset while he was wooing Daenerys for the greater good as well as the history of his torrid affair with Satin. It will also explain any Jondry references in explicit detail. Feel free to read if you're so inclined.
> 
> Sidenote #2: While this fic is written in Sansa and Jon's POV, I haven't decided if there will be a Satin POV in this story. Satin's POV exists inside my head, where he can flourish in all his glory, but I might need to include it. I haven't made up my mind. Also, while this fic does feature the Political!Jon theory, it is really only a background plot and predominantly contained to the first few chapters. Although the first chapters are quite plot-centric, because apparently I can't write anything that isn't ridiculously long-winded* and angst-ridden, this fic is not a S8 imagining or meant to dwell on all the ins and outs of the consequences to R+L=J. It's only meant to focus on how this will change Jon and Sansa's personal relationship so we can get on with what's truly important: the smut. You can fill in whatever headcanons you want.
> 
> *these notes, for example

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a long-held secret comes to light, Sansa and Jon must navigate their change in circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: Most of the tags don't apply to this chapter, including the triggers.

Sansa Stark sat at the table inside Winterfell’s council chambers. Her sister Arya was standing beside her. Seated across from the table were her brother Bran and Samwell Tarly. A moment before, she’d been rendered speechless. Yet although she didn’t speak, her mind had begun to race, reconciling everything she knew about her lord father, the story of her Aunt Lyanna, her half-brother, Jon Snow, and the shocking information she’d just received.

“But… it can’t be true,” said Arya. “It’s not possible.”

Bran considered his sisters and then turned to the man sitting next to him. “Show them.”

Sam turned and motioned to his wildling girl companion. “Bring the book over.”

Watching the young woman named Gilly, Sansa stared, unblinking, at the old leather-bound book set down onto the wooden tabletop. The girl flipped yellowed pages until quickly finding the passage she sought, and slid the book over in front of Sam. He then read it aloud before turning the book around and sliding it across to Sansa.

“Look at the date, my lady,” he said.

She bent her head and read the page. She felt her sister step closer, leaning over her shoulder to look. Her mouth suddenly went dry and she swallowed.

“Seven hells,” Arya cursed. “But how can this be? Father told us about him. Told everyone. He wasn’t a liar.”

“He’d lie to protect those he loved,” said Bran, staring at his eldest sister with a knowing gaze. “Wouldn’t he?”

_I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King. I come before you to confess my treason, in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my King, and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne. By the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

Memories stirred in Sansa’s mind. Her eyes welled up and brimmed over. She dropped her gaze from the others, hiding her tears. Samwell Tarly quietly stood from the table, whispered something to Gilly as he grabbed hold of her hand, and they quickly left the chambers. She could feel Bran and Arya’s eyes on her, waiting for her to speak. But she couldn’t. The words caught in her throat. The feeling of resentment she at times had felt for her father as a young girl now tasted of bitterness and regret. She remembered her father’s words of honor, respect, honesty, morality, the values he tried so hard to teach them all. She remembered secret looks between her parents, stolen embraces and gentle kisses when they thought no one was watching. Catelyn Stark had been the only woman her father had ever loved. There had never been anyone else. He never betrayed her mother. He never fathered a bastard.

Brushing the tears from her face with the back of her hand, she reached into the pocket she’d sewn into her dark grey woolen gown and retrieved out the small scroll. She pulled it open and read it again for what felt like the fiftieth time.

_Sansa,_

_Cersei Lannister has pledged her forces to our cause, as has Daenerys Targaryen. And if we survive this war, I have pledged our forces to Daenerys at the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We are both coming to organise the defence of the realm._

_Jon Snow  *  Warden of the North  *_

Sansa stared at his words. “Cersei Lannister has pledged her forces to our cause,” he wrote. This was a lie. Even if Cersei had said this to him, there was still no way this was true. Cersei couldn’t be trusted. Daenerys Targaryen was a threat to her. And her own brother turned traitor and was now supporting the dragon queen. But she was going to send her armies north to help them fight? He couldn’t possibly believe this. She’d tried her best to convey to him just how dangerous Cersei was, the games she played, and the extent to which she’d go to destroy her enemies. She thought she’d gotten through to him. Did he now really believe Cersei was the kind of person to lay down grudges and desires for vengeance for the greater good?

 _“I_ have pledged  _our_  forces.” Despite leaving the North in her hands, he made it clear he was the one in charge with that wording. He neither wanted or needed her input. He had conveyed an enormous decision with just a single, glib line of text. There was no discussion. There was no explanation. No apology. It wasn’t like him.

“The _rightful_ Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” She knew how he felt about Robert’s Rebellion. About the deaths of their grandfather and uncle. About the sacrifices their lord father had made to win that war and remove the Targaryens from power. They’d both heard the story too many times to count; their father reiterated time and time again that the rebellion had been justified, the Mad King deserved to have his rule overthrown, and that King Robert was the realm’s rightful king. He wasn’t _their_ lord father anymore, now was he? But _he_ still believed Lord Eddard Stark was his father, and she knew the importance he placed in her father’s beliefs and values. Yet he said this about Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of the Mad King. How could this be something he truly believed?

She stared at his signature. “Warden of the North.” Another very blunt way of communicating a huge change in House Stark’s situation, and again, not like him at all. He had bent the knee and renounced his title, a decision that would affect everyone in the North. Especially herself, and he’d told her about it in the bluntest way possible. Something was off.  

Three weeks earlier, she’d received another raven from him announcing their arrival in White Harbor. Short and to the point, the message conveyed no real information. Another raven arrived a week later to tell her they’d joined up with Daenerys Targaryen’s army on the kingsroad. It too held no explanation for his actions and no personal message to her or her siblings. _They’re reading his letters_ , she suddenly realized. _And he’s trying to warn us of their impending arrival, prepare us._

It wouldn’t be long before they arrived in Winterfell. It was time to act. Sansa lifted a tiny silver bell from the table and tinkled it gently. After a moment, a plump young serving girl entered the council chambers. “Marna, could you please send for Maester Wolkan?”

“Yes, m’lady.” The girl curtseyed and left the room.

Some time went by before the tall and bald maester entered the chambers. He bowed his head. “Apologies, Lady Stark. I was in the rookery tending to the ravens.”

Sansa considered him. “Yes, maester. In three days, there is to be a meeting in the Great Hall for a matter of utmost urgency. I need you to communicate this to the lords and ladies of all houses sworn to House Stark. Most of them are already here, or on their way. You’ll also need to ensure that our entire household is present, including guards and servants.”

Bran gazed at her, the faintest hint of a smile appearing on his lips.

“As you wish, my lady,” replied Wolkan, before bowing and heading for the door.

“Oh, and maester?”

After grasping the latch, he turned back. “Yes, my lady?”

She looked down at the open scroll in her hands. “The Guest House will need to be prepared for Daenerys Targaryen and those traveling with her.”

Arya visibly bristled. “Sansa…”

Her mouth curved into a slight smirk as she glanced at her sister. “The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms can’t stay in a tent outside our walls in the freezing cold, now can she?” She turned again to the maester. “The Guest House, please.”

Wolkan blinked. “Lady Stark, have you given anymore thought to my suggestion of appointing a steward to manage the castle’s household matters? A qualified steward would be most suited for these sorts of tasks.”

Sansa heaved a sigh. When she was a young girl, the steward of Winterfell had been her friend Jeyne Poole’s father. There hadn’t been a steward since. The steward of Winterfell had charge of the whole household, and in many ways, was the most trusted person in the castle. The steward had unrestricted access to the family chambers in the Great Keep’s tower, and handled their every care, day or night. She had yet to trust any such person to appoint. “Yes, of course, I’ve given it careful thought. As soon as I deem someone worthy of the position, they’ll have it.”

Without another word, the maester bowed and left the room.

Three days later, Sansa was sitting in the high seat at the back of the Great Hall, Bran and Arya by her side at the table. Maester Wolkan stood behind them. Lords and ladies from twenty northern houses filled the benches, along with Lord Yohn Royce and several high-ranking commanders from the Knights of the Vale. Samwell Tarly and Gilly were also in attendance as well as Lady Brienne of Tarth and Ser Jaime Lannister, who’d recently arrived together after having met on the kingsroad while traveling north from King’s Landing. Winterfell servants and soldiers lined the walls. The large room was awash with angry noise, people shouting and arguing.

Sansa stood from her chair, exasperated. “Enough!” she exclaimed. “Please, my lords! My ladies! Please hear me!”

The room quieted. All eyes focused expectantly on her. “We must put our trust in Jon. He is our king.”

Noise threatened to erupt again, angry voices starting to react once more. “He bent the knee!”

But she held out a firm hand, and they were silenced. She glanced at Bran. He met her gaze and nodded. Sansa turned back to the audience. “My lords, we have good reason to believe that all may not be as it appears. Daenerys Targaryen has no real claim to the Iron Throne. Cersei Lannister’s rule will not last. It is in the North’s best interests to throw all our support behind Jon, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But he’s a Targaryen!”

“How can we trust him?!”

Unable to keep silent any longer, Arya admonished the crowd. “Jon Snow is a son of the North. He is the blood of Winterfell, Stark blood, same as us.”

Many of those gathered only grumbled in response, shaking their heads.

A surge of emotion welled up from someplace deep inside Sansa. She swallowed against the lump forming at the back of her throat. “Our father, Ned Stark, let everyone believe he’d dishonored himself and his marriage. He undermined the very king he’d sworn himself to, his best friend in all the world, and a man he loved like a brother. All for the sake of keeping Jon safe, to keep a promise he’d made to a most beloved sister. He raised him as his very own here at Winterfell alongside his own children. Ned Stark risked his very life, and the lives of all those he loved, to protect Jon Snow. We must all do the same.”

Sansa watched the expressions of the lords and ladies change, becoming somber, chastised. “Jon is our king,” she continued. “He loves the North. He cares for its people. He’s prepared to risk his life for us, to die for us. You can trust him, my lords. I promise you.”

Those of the audience sighed or nodded, finally accepting her words, even if somewhat begrudgingly. “Now,” she said decisively, her tone final, emitting the close of one topic and the transition to another, and sat down in the table’s high seat. “We need to discuss how we’re going to deal with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Bran nodded. Arya smirked. And all those gathered gave them their undivided, wide-eyed attention.

*****

Gripping the reins of his courser, a mare as black and shiny as maester’s ink, Jon rode to the crest of a snow-covered hill and then came to a halt. The walls of Winterfell loomed before him in the distance, just past the winter town. The dense tree line of the wolfswood lay behind the castle. Clouds had begun to form high up in the sky beyond. After a brief appearance, the morning sun had disappeared behind a dark bank of clouds that were now rolling towards the castle. Even though it was not yet noon, the sky darkened. A winter storm was brewing. 

In front of him, a garrison of House Stark guards led the way. Behind him, the Dothraki horde rode up the hill. Behind them, thousands of Unsullied marched. Above them all, two enormous beasts soared through the sky, the most fearsome weapons of war the world had ever seen. Many had died on the journey, but not due to any battles or violence. The harsh wintery landscape of the North had claimed their lives. He’d made sure their bodies had been burned. Not a single northman had perished.

Staring at the castle, Jon at once yearned for the safe haven on the other side of its stone walls and filled with trepidation at what might await him there. Other riders soon joined him on the hill crest, and his stomach tightened further. He glanced at Ser Davos Seaworth and Ser Jorah Mormont atop their steeds, their gaze suddenly fixed on Winterfell in the distance. Not far behind, Daenerys Targaryen traveled by caravan with her Hand, Tyrion Lannister, her scribe, Missandei, and Lord Varys.

His plans regarding the Mad King’s daughter had only extended as far as arriving in Winterfell together and keeping her focused on the enemy to the north. Turning from the knights at his side, Jon again eyed the castle walls. He hoped his sister would know what to do now they had arrived, would know how to smartly and safely untangle the dangerous web he’d weaved. He trusted her ability to do so. He could only hope she had the same trust in him. Once again taking firm hold of the reins, he urged his horse forward.

An hour later, Jon was riding through the winter town, leaving the Dothraki horde and Unsullied outside its borders to make camp. No longer burnt and broken, Sansa had seen to its restoration. The town was no longer uninhabited but bustling with activity. Smallfolk had left their frozen fields and distant holdfasts, loaded up their wagons with supplies and loved ones, and made the arduous journey to Winterfell. Winter was here, and this was how the people of the North had survived for thousands of years. Northmen and their families flocked to the security and protection of House Stark.

 _And I have brought dragons to their doorstep,_ Jon thought anxiously.

The villagers emerged from their warm houses as they rode past. They bent the knee upon sight of their returning king riding beneath the direwolf sigil. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen wasn’t far behind, and the town-folk threw fearful glances to the sky. Jon greeted each man, woman, and child with a somber nod as he rode toward the market square and the main gates of the castle beyond.

It wasn’t long before he was riding across the lowered drawbridge beneath the two huge crenelated bulwarks of the arched gate. Ser Davos and Ser Jorah weren’t far behind him, followed by Daenerys Targaryen’s caravan flanked by a garrison made of Unsullied and Dothraki. Once inside Winterfell’s courtyard, he dismounted his courser and handed the reins to a bowing servant with long greying brown hair.

“My king,” the servant whispered in hushed tones, before turning and quickly walking away toward the stables.

Jon stared after him with furrowed brows. Hadn’t Sansa received his ravens? He’d bent the knee, at least as far as everyone else was concerned. She must’ve communicated this to Winterfell’s household as well as to the northern lords.

The entire household had gathered to greet him and his traveling party, but there was no sign of his siblings or any of the northern lords. Suddenly an intense hunger rose up in his gut, the need for prey, to feast on the fresh meat and dark blood of a large deer or elk. He froze in confusion and didn’t understand where the feeling had come from. Realization then dawned on him. _Ghost?_

Jon turned, gazing about him in all directions. With a sound of heavy thuds in the air, he soon glimpsed the large white wolf darting into the courtyard. His heart leapt, and he moved toward his direwolf. “Ghost! Come here, boy.”

Leaning over, he let Ghost lick his face with a rough wet tongue. “I missed you, boy,” he murmured. The void began to fill, the emptiness and loneliness that had felt like a chasm inside started to grow smaller. Standing upright, he turned to watch Ser Davos and Ser Jorah dismount their horses. The caravan had also made its way over the drawbridge and settled inside the courtyard.

And then Jon saw her. A slender girl of seventeen rushed into the open. Dark hair hung to her shoulders, tied back like their father used to wear. She had the long Stark face, like his. And dark eyes, like his. She wore boy’s leathers and woolens, her fur-lined cloak draped over one shoulder and fastened diagonally across her chest, keeping her sword arm free. A skinny blade hung from her hip, the sword he’d asked Mikken to make small to fit her hand all those years ago.

_Arya._

Their eyes met and held. He’d hoped for this moment for as long as he could remember. But until they were safe from watchful eyes, he was still playing the game. Her chest heaved with her breath, excitement etched across her face. He watched her rock back on her heel. She was going to run to him, jump into his arms as she’d done as a little girl, hug him tight around the neck and kiss him. With a direct, unflinching gaze and the slight shake of his head, he deterred her from doing so.

She froze, her brows knitting. He watched emotions flicker across her face – confusion first, then disappointment, and then something else he couldn’t recognize. Jon held up his palm, silently telling her to remain where she was, and gave her a reassuring nod. He watched Arya’s dark eyes unfocus and then stare past his head. He followed her gaze. Daenerys Targaryen had set foot in Winterfell’s courtyard.

Everyone in the courtyard bent the knee. The captain of the household guard and his men. Servants. The master-at-arms, master of horse, kennelmaster, the blacksmith, and the cook. He stared at Arya. She shot him a mischievous smirk, and then she too bent the knee. He gazed uneasily about him. Something was going on.

He watched Tyrion Lannister step out, stretch, and walk towards him. Daenerys followed him, moving to stand by his side, a pleased expression on her face. Ghost bared his fangs at her in a silent snarl and the dragon queen stepped back, her eyes widening. “He’s still shy, I see,” Tyrion quipped.

Jon fought a grin. “Ghost, sit,” he commanded, and his direwolf obeyed without hesitation. He looked at the dwarf. “Not to worry. He won’t attack unless I tell him to.”

“I guess that’s comforting,” Lannister retorted, although his demeanor said otherwise.

Rising to his feet, Maester Wolkan then approached them. “Your Grace,” he said to her. “My lords. Lady Stark has requested your immediate presence in the Great Hall.”

Jon swallowed. Something twisted in his gut. _Sansa._ He stared across the courtyard at his little sister getting to her feet. She caught his eye. Her mouth curved into another smirk. Arya then turned toward the wide doors made of oak and iron that led to the Great Hall, open to the castle yard. She hurried inside, his gaze following her until she was no longer in sight.

*****

Inside the Great Hall, two dozen guardsmen lined the grey stone walls. Men and women crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches of the eight long rows of trestle tables, four on each side of the central aisle. Behind the Stark table stood Brienne and the maester. Sansa was seated at the back in the high seat of the Starks, Bran and Arya beside her.

Although she kept her face a mask, her insides had grown tight with anxious anticipation. This initial meeting with Daenerys Targaryen needed to go well. She had to appear hospitable, and yet a firm and strong leader for her people. She remembered Septa Mordane’s words of wisdom.

_A lady’s armor is courtesy._

When Jon Snow arrived, stepping into the large room from the courtyard, her anticipation rose so high it felt as if her insides were twisting into knots. An overwhelming sense of relief filled her, to lay eyes on him once again, to see that he was safe at home in Winterfell, that he’d finally come back to her. She’d both longed for this moment and dreaded it. For nothing she had to say to him was anything he wanted to hear. She knew it was going to break his heart, but they had no choice. It must be done.

When Jon laid eyes on Sansa, the pain of his love for her rose up inside him like a vengeance. He had tried to reason it away, tried to make himself believe it was only fleeting lust and nothing more, tried to shame himself into controlling his lecherous thoughts. But all in vain. He did love her. He knew he loved her from the moment she flew into his arms at Castle Black. Nowhere in the world could there be a woman more beautiful than his Sansa.

Their eyes met and held, transfixed, and the large room was silent for a moment. Missandei then stepped forward, and without invitation or instruction, immediately began reciting the many titles Daenerys Targaryen had bestowed upon herself. Jon and Sansa exchanged a pointed look. When she had finished reciting, everyone seated on the benches turned their heads to Lady Stark.

“Welcome to Winterfell, _Your Grace,”_ she responded. “The Guest House has been prepared for you and your attendants. I hope you will find your brief stay here safe and comfortable.”

The smile on Daenerys Targaryen’s face slightly faltered. “‘Brief,’ my lady?”

Sansa arched her brow. “The winter town is already full to bursting, and this army of yours will eat the land clean if it camps here longer than a fortnight. You must march north as soon as possible.”

At his side, Jon could feel the young queen tense up. He wondered how long it had been since anyone had deigned to give _her_ a direct order. He was also keenly aware of the northern lords and their pointed stares in his direction. While some were clearly displeased, others gazed at him with curious expressions as if they were seeing him for the first time. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Lady Stark,” ventured Daenerys. “My men have traveled a thousand leagues through harsh climate, and all at my bidding, so that I can _save_ the North. At the very least, we should be able to remain here at the castle for as long as needed. I should expect…”

“We are most grateful that you have pledged your forces to our cause, Your Grace,” Sansa interrupted. “But the North has just enough grain stores to last the winter, thanks to the posthumous generosity of Lord Petyr Baelish.”

Jon blinked. _Posthumous?_

“Perhaps we might have been able to send for more, but according to Ser Jaime Lannister…” She nodded in his direction and Jon turned to see the fair-haired knight seated on one of the benches. Nerves flooded his gut. Surely, the Kingslayer would tell them all of Cersei’s undoubted duplicity. He gazed up at Sansa, silently pleading with her to prevent the Lord of Casterly Rock from speaking.

“…we’ve been informed that the grain stores of the Reach, enough to feed the _entire realm_ through winter, were incinerated by your dragon at your command.”

Daenerys stared, her eyes blazing. Jon’s eyes widened at this news and turned to her with a shocked expression. How foolish and reckless. Thousands were now going to starve. She met his gaze with an intense look, her brows knitting.

Sansa stiffened at the sight. She sensed something between them. Intimacy, by the look on the Targaryen woman’s face. Anger rose up inside her, her stomach fluttering with nerves, leaving her confused, unable to fully understand where the feeling had come from. “The North does not have the food or supplies to support your army and your dragons indefinitely,” she concluded. “My duty is to my people and their welfare. I mean for none of them to starve or lack shelter.”

“As Warden of the North, Jon Snow…,” Daenerys again ventured, appearing to steel herself.

“He has no authority here,” replied Sansa, hardening her expression. “King in the North was a title given to him by the people. But he bent the knee and is no longer king. He stripped himself of his title. I suppose we can be thankful he spared us the trouble of doing so.”

Jon’s face fell, and he swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, his heart pounding beneath his ribs, his guts twisting into knots. If only he’d been allowed to speak with his sister privately before this audience. He could only hope he’d have the opportunity later.

She stared at the shocked faces of the dragon queen, Tyrion Lannister, Lord Varys, Ser Davos, and a man who could only be Ser Jorah Mormont. She couldn’t look at Jon, her stomach tightening fiercely. She didn’t want to say the words, but it was necessary. “The Warden of the North has always been a title held by House Stark. Jon Snow is not a Stark. He’s a bastard.”

He paled at her words, at her tone dripping with venom. It was as if she had physically struck him, shock stopping his breath like a blow. His eyes went to Arya and Bran, but they refused to meet his gaze.

“I am Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and the North. So, it seems to me that you’re in need of a _Wardeness.”_

Daenerys considered her with a hard stare before throwing a pointed glance in Tyrion Lannister’s direction. He averted his eyes from hers, seemingly at a loss at their present circumstances. Sansa stifled a grin.

Relaxing her posture, she then gave them a small smile. “My apologies, Your Grace. Perhaps this isn’t the appropriate time or setting for such a discussion. I know it must have been a difficult journey for you and please believe that we are most thankful that you have come to the North to help us in the fight against our enemies. Maybe it would be best to leave off for now so that you may retire to your accommodations and get some much-needed rest. We can resume tomorrow.”

Daenerys nodded, her eyes hard. “Yes, I think that would be preferable, Lady _Stark.”_

Sansa peered over her shoulder at the maester. With an inconvenienced demeanor, he stepped forward to lead the dragon queen and her entourage out of the hall and to the Guest House. She should speak to him about that later, but she knew he’d only bring up the steward issue again.

“Samwell Tarly?”

Everyone turned to see Jorah Mormont had stepped forward, walking past Daenerys. Jon turned his head in surprise, his eyes searching the benches for his friend. Sam slowly stood up, giving a slight bow of his head. “Hello, Ser Jorah. Good to see you looking so well.”

Mormont turned to Daenerys. “My queen, this is the man who helped me at the Citadel. He cured me of greyscale so that I could return to your service.”

Jon stared at his friend in shock. Cured greyscale? And why was he here? Why wasn’t he still in Oldtown, studying to become a maester for the Night’s Watch? Sam caught his eye and gave him a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Daenerys swallowed. “Did you say Tarly?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” answered Ser Jorah. “The eldest son of House Tarly, the wealthiest and most esteemed family of the Reach now that the Tyrells are no more. He also served under my father, who was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before Jon Snow. And... he saved my life.”

“Tarly?” she said again, as if in a daze.

Sansa watched as Daenerys shot a troubled glance at Tyrion Lannister, who closed his eyes and hung his head. She and Bran exchanged a knowing look.

The Targaryen queen and her entourage then began to exit the Great Hall, Jon remaining behind. She turned and gave him an expectant look, clearly intending him to go with her, but he shook his head. His place wasn’t in the Guest House. He hoped he still had one in the Great Keep. With an uneasy glance at him, Daenerys left the hall.

Once the oak-and-iron doors closed, Sansa stood and thanked the northern lords and their men, effectively dismissing them. She then turned to Jon. He looked miserable. “Council chambers,” she said, and walked away from the table. Arya stood and grabbed hold of Bran’s chair and then began wheeling him after her, moving toward the rear exit that led to a dimly-lit gallery. Brienne of Tarth followed them.

Jon began walking away from a stunned Ser Davos, up the center aisle of the Great Hall, avoiding the steady gaze of the northern lords.

*****

Once inside the Great Keep, Jon made for its council chambers. Reaching the door, he found Brienne standing sentinel outside. Without a knock, he grasped the handle and entered the room. Sansa stood in front of the long oak table, with Bran sitting next to her in his wheeled chair. Arya stood near the fire crackling in the grey stone hearth. He stared at his little sister for a moment. Excitement etched across her face once more, but she remained by the fire, making no move to approach him.

His gaze moved to Sansa and Bran. She could see Jon looked nonplussed, at a loss for words. She knew what she had said in the Great Hall had wounded him, but it wouldn’t be the worst he would hear today. She fixed a stern gaze in his direction. “You bent the knee.”

Jon sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “As far as Daenerys is concerned, yes. I told her I would, and then gave a very public impression that I had. But I didn’t bend anything.”

“And we’re supposed to believe you?” she challenged. “You said so yourself in that grand speech you made before leaving for Dragonstone. You never wanted to be king. You never asked for it. It was obvious you were uncomfortable in that position and would be better off without it. And now you have a beautiful queen to serve. I’m sure you’ll be greatly rewarded for helping her win the Iron Throne. Maybe she’ll even marry you and allow you to father future Targaryen heirs. Quite an honor for a bastard with no title.”

He watched emotions flicker across her face. Anger, frustration, resentment, and something else. Jealousy? But he didn’t know how that could be possible. Indignation flooded his gut like molten gold. She always could twist him into knots like no other. “I’d rather rot,” he snapped.

Eyes widening, Sansa and Arya quickly exchanged glances.

“The realm would only suffer if she sat the Iron Throne,” he continued hotly. “She’s short-tempered, near-sighted, impulsive, entitled, selfish…” The sentence trailed off. “To hell with the Iron Throne. Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons are just as much a threat to the realm, to humanity, as the White Walkers.” He heaved an exasperated sigh, his face hardening. “And no, I didn’t set out to be king. I didn’t ask the people of the North to make me one. But they did make me their king, and I’m the king they need! Our chances of winning this war are small to none, but at least I’ll die fighting for the North, for the sake of the living, and not some fucking throne!”

Jon was breathing heavily, the words having burst forth before he could stop himself, words that had been pent up inside him for months, unable to give voice to them until now. Sansa’s face softened, and she turned to smile at Arya. Her sister finally rushed forward. He stared at her in surprise as the girl was suddenly in front of him, throwing her arms around him, embracing him. Sighing, he felt the anxiety and frustration dissipate as he held her. Emotion welled up inside him as he pulled out of the hug and brought his hands to her face, holding her between his palms.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispered, his eyes starting to shine with unshed tears.

“So did I,” Arya said. “Different roads led to the same castle, after all.”

He dropped his hands from her face, smiling for the first time in many months. Turning, his happy gaze settled on his brother.

“Hello, Jon,” Bran said, regarding him calmly, without emotion.

Still smiling, he stepped forward and gave his brother a warm embrace. “I had thought the worst when Sam told me he’d seen you north of the Wall. How did you get home?”

Bran hesitated. “It is a long story. But Uncle Benjen found me and Meera Reed of Greywater Watch, saved us from the White Walkers. He took us to the Wall. Once at Castle Black, we arranged transport to Winterfell.”

He had so many questions, he didn’t know where to begin. “Uncle Benjen is dead,” he murmured sadly.

“I know.”

Jon’s brows furrowed as he considered his brother, looking up at him strangely. What had happened to him?

He then turned an anxious gaze on Sansa. Their eyes met and held. His expression softened. He wanted to embrace her as well, feel her comforting warmth, inhale her scent deep into his chest, flowery with a hint of lemon. But his heart was heavy within him, the memory of her face in the Great Hall, cold and hard and unforgiving, was like a stone weight in his gut. Her eyes studied his face. She had missed him so much. She’d been too long without him. It had been a lonely and frustrating absence, not realizing until after he’d left just how much she valued his companionship. Her gaze drifted down to his lips for a moment and something deep inside her tightened, her stomach fluttering like butterflies trapped in a glass jar. The feeling made her nervous, and she pushed it away. To him, it seemed like an hour of desire had passed, although in truth it was only a few moments.

“Sansa,” he whispered. His heart pounded furiously beneath his ribs. She always made him feel defenseless, weak, and lovesick. It was at once the most wonderful and the most terrible feeling in the world.

“Jon.” Moving forward, she twined her arms around his shoulders and held him close. A warm, pleasant feeling spread through her. “I’m so happy you’re home. You were gone so long.”

His mind went blank, and all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms, kiss her, sink as far as he could inside her. Then he came to his senses and pulled away. His brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at her, but then realization began to dawn. “That whole display in the Great Hall…?” She smiled at him sheepishly. “It was an act? For what? For Daenerys’s benefit?”

Arya arched her brows and pursed her lips. “Partly.”

“I needed to be sure of some things,” Sansa answered. “Of how you really felt about Daenerys Targaryen, about her being the _rightful_ Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And how you truly felt, deep down, about being king.”

Jon sighed, and nodded. He knew his messages to her had been purposely vague.

She gazed at him, the words of Littlefinger coming to mind once again.

_One of two things will happen. Either the dead will defeat the living, in which case all our troubles come to an end, or life will win out. And what then?_

Sansa turned to Bran. “It’s time.” A knowing look passed between them, and he gave a slight nod of his head. She turned and picked up the small silver bell on the table, giving it a gentle ring.

Almost instantly, Marna the serving girl entered the chamber and curtseyed. “Lady Stark.”

“Is Samwell Tarly nearby?” she asked.

“Yes, m’lady. He’s waiting just outside.”

With one last glance at Bran and Arya, Sansa considered the girl and nodded. “Send him in, please.”

Watching the servant leave the room, Jon swallowed, a feeling of nervous anticipation filling his heart.

*****

The only sound within the council chambers was the crackling fire in the hearth. Rendered speechless, Jon stared down at the granite stone floor. Although Bran watched him calmly, his expression unreadable, the others in the room looked on in silence, frowning in sympathy, brows furrowed in consternation. His head was swimming, filled to the rim with shock, confusion, and grief. He could feel his throat swell and tighten. He had put up a fight, refused to believe, angrily denied its possibility, but the truth of it was slowly starting to sink in. He wanted to weep.

“Sansa…,” he finally choked out.

Her heart ached for him. She turned to her siblings and Samwell Tarly. “I want to be alone with Jon,” she said to them, her voice just above a whisper.

They quickly and quietly moved to the chamber door, Sam pushing Bran’s chair. When Arya opened the door and looked out into the hallway, she turned back into the room. “Sansa, the northern lords are out here.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What do they want?”

Her little sister appeared to be listening to muffled voices in the hall. Arya then answered. “They wish to speak to you and Jon.”

Sighing, she stood from the table and moved around it. “Tell them they’ll have to wait.”

Arya nodded and then left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Sansa and Jon alone for the first time in nearly a year.

Taking the chair next to Jon’s near the stone hearth, Sansa turned towards him and waited for him to speak. He leaned forward, his elbows propped up on his thighs, holding his hand with the other. She watched the agitated manner he rubbed his thumb against his palm.

“When I was a boy, being a bastard only ever felt like a curse,” Jon said, breaking the silence. “I wished I was trueborn, that I had the name Stark.” He sighed. “But as a bastard, I still had brothers and sisters. I was still Ned Stark’s son. I still had a family. Now I _am_ trueborn, and I have nothing.”

She hesitated, swallowing. “We may not be brother and sister any longer, but… I will always love you.” Her stomach fluttered, her face growing hot. She hurriedly pushed the feeling away. “Arya, too. And Bran. You have our full support.”

His eyes met hers, those blue eyes that contained such warmth and kindness. He was speechless for a moment, his blood thundering in his ears. He wanted to reach out for her.

“You _still_ have family, Jon. Me and Bran and Arya… We’re your cousins. We still claim you as our own. You’re still part of the pack.” She hesitated. “And… you also have an aunt. Daenerys.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands, cursing under his breath. He felt sick.

Pursing her lips, Sansa studied him. An unwelcome image flashed in her mind, and she pushed it away. “You laid with her, didn’t you?”

Jon thought he heard a hint of jealousy in her tone. Sitting up, he stared at her. “You were right. You told me not to go, that it was too dangerous, and you were right. The moment we set foot on Dragonstone, our weapons were taken away. She expected me to bend the knee and support her claim to the Iron Throne. She didn’t want to listen to our cause. And then we weren’t allowed to leave.”

“She made you a prisoner.”

“It wasn’t the first time I’d been a prisoner. When I was with the wildlings, the only way to survive and get back to my brothers at Castle Black was to gain their trust. I had to prove that I was no longer a man of the Night’s Watch, that I no longer upheld their vows, that I supported Mance Rayder’s cause. And I remembered what you said about being smarter than Father.” He paused, his heart constricting. _“Your_ father. I had to do the same with Daenerys if I was going to be able to leave Dragonstone _and_ gain her support.”

Sansa pondered his words. “And how soon did that involve getting into her bed?”

“Not until the journey to White Harbor.”

“But hadn’t she already pledged her forces to our cause?” Another unwelcome image flashed, of the dragon queen in his arms, of his mouth on hers. She was unable to quell the feeling of irritation that rose up inside her.

Jon sighed. “Only after Cersei had consented to a truce and agreed to help us. You and I both know she has no intentions of upholding it, and it’s only a matter of time before Daenerys learns the truth of it. I needed to ensure she won’t abandon us to fight for the throne when she does.”

Memories stirred, Cersei’s words coming back to her from all those years ago.

_Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one’s between your legs. Learn how to use it._

Sansa knew men had a weapon between their legs, too. But who was the one truly using it? Jon or Daenerys? “Did you fall for her like your wildling girl?”

“No, of course not,” he replied heatedly, staring at her with a direct gaze. “You told me to be smarter than Robb, remember? I listened.” He shook his head. “At times, she has her heart in the right place but she’s too proud, too impulsive, paranoid, and dangerous.”

“We have to defeat her, Jon.”

He nodded, sighing. “I know. But one enemy at a time, one war at a time. We’ll figure out what to do about her later.”

Again, Littlefinger’s words rushed forward.

_Don’t fight in the north or the south. Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before._

“If we’re smart and plan accordingly, we can fight both at the same time,” she ventured. “You’re the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. She has no claim. We just need to convince as many as we can to support yours.”

“The Others can take that fucking throne,” he cursed.

_…or life will win out. And what then?_

Sansa turned towards him, moving closer, reaching and placing her hand on his forearm, gently taking hold of him. “You are the king we need. You said so yourself.” She paused, emotion rising from deep within her. “You are the most remarkable man I’ve ever known. You always put the interest of others ahead of yours. You’ve been through so much, things that I can’t even begin to understand, and you never complain. You never waiver in your decisions or fail to do what you think is right, even when no one else agrees. People follow you, people die for you. Willingly, without force or ultimatums or manipulations. _I_ would follow you. You are the king _I_ would choose.”

“It’s likely we won’t even survive this war,” he said.

“But what if life wins out?” she replied, almost pleading, squeezing his arm. “If we manage to defeat the Night King and his army, the realm will need to recover from the devastation. It will need good, strong leadership, not a tyrant on the throne. It _can’t_ be Daenerys, or Cersei. There’s no one else with the birthright and the ability, who would be a good ruler and who would have the genuine support of the people. You’re the one, Jon. It can only be _you_.”

Their eyes met and held, transfixed, and they both flushed under the intense gaze. They could feel the air in the room change. The tension ratcheted, the air crackled as sharply as the wood burning in the hearth. Sansa’s lips parted, and her breath became rapid and shallow. A powerful feeling rose up inside Jon, and suddenly he felt on the brink of pouring out the secret desires of his heart, of confessing the agony and the ecstasy of his love for her.

“Sansa…,” he whispered.

The chamber door then abruptly opened, breaking the spell. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa face sudden and drastic changes to their relationship.

Lords and ladies began entering the council chambers and were soon gathered before them. Brienne of Tarth set foot inside the room. “I wasn’t able to keep them out any longer, my lady. They were quite insistent.” She shot them a disapproving glance.

“It’s all right, Brienne,” Sansa reassured. “Thank you.”

Her sworn sword stepped back out into the hall, shutting the door behind her. Sansa gazed at those standing before her – Robett Glover, Wyman Manderly, Cley Cerwyn, Rodrik Ryswell, Barbrey Dustin, Lyanna Mormont, Torghen Flint, Brandon Norrey, Hugo Wull, and Torren Liddle. Also, with them were the young Ned Umber, Alys Karstark, and Eddara Tallhart along with Yohn Royce of the Vale.

Sansa folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, my lords? My ladies?”

Lord Manderly fixed a hard stare in Jon’s direction. “I assume you’ve heard the truth about yourself?”

He nodded silently, speaking no reply.

“What do you mean to do about it?”

Jon stared up at him, not knowing how to respond. Whether he’d been fathered by Ned Stark or Rhaegar Targaryen, it didn’t change their present circumstances much. The Night King was out there preparing. It was only a matter of time before he struck. “I’m still the same Jon,” he finally said. “There’s a war to fight. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“There just might be two wars to fight,” Lord Robett countered. “Or are you going to let that foreign whore and her dragons rule the North? Force us to bend the knee or burn?”

“No,” Jon spat, standing up from his chair in front of the hearth and pacing. Sansa gave him a pleading gaze, arching her brows expectantly. Her earlier words echoed inside his head. He sighed, and then met their questioning looks with his jaw set and his mouth firm, determined. “I am a king. And I’m going to do what kings do. I’m going to rule.”

Heart swelling with pride and admiration as well as relief, Sansa gave him a small smile.

Lord Royce fixed him with a hard gaze. “Kings also make marriage alliances. How do we know you’re not going to marry Daenerys? You’re a Targaryen yourself, and they’re not to be trusted.”

“I have no intentions of allying myself with Daenerys Targaryen for any purpose other than defeating the Night King,” he implored. “And I have no intentions of setting myself up as a Targaryen ruler. You can trust me, my lords.”

“We want you to prove it,” Cley Cerwyn declared, the others nodding their heads in agreement. “Not just in word, but in action.”

Jon merely shook his head in frustration. “There’s a chance she won’t even survive this war, and then there won’t be any need to concern ourselves with Daenerys.”

Sansa’s mind began to race. _Or life will win out. And what then?_

“Once Daenerys Targaryen learns you have the better claim, she might want to make a match with you,” Lord Manderly cautioned. “Or kill you. One or the other. A beautiful queen and the threat of dragonfire would be hard for most men to stand up against. As well as the draw of the former glory of your father’s House.”

Ever fiber of Jon’s being revolted at such a thing, to hear Rhaegar Targaryen spoken of as his _father_. His true father was Ned Stark. Nothing would take that away from him.

Lyanna Mormont took a step forward. “The North knows no king but the King in the North whose name is _Stark_. If you’re to rule the Seven Kingdoms as Rhaegar’s heir, then you’re to rule in the name of your mother’s House. Only then will we ever bend the knee to the Iron Throne again; if a Stark is sitting on it.”

Jon gazed upon all the determined faces staring back at him. None of them contradicted Lady Lyanna’s words. “But I’m not a Stark,” he sighed. “Not truly. I’m a Snow. And if I’m to be legitimized as king, if I demand my birthright, then I’ll be a Targaryen.”

All the while, Sansa’s mind had continued to race, words of Littlefinger and Cersei coming back to her once again, words of Septa Mordane, of her father.

 _I’ve heard gossip that the dragon queen is quite beautiful. … Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried. … An alliance makes sense. Together, they’d be difficult to defeat. He was_ named _King in the North. He can be unnamed._

_Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one’s between your legs. Learn how to use it._

_Someday your husband will sit there, and you will sit by his side. And one day, before long, you will present your son to the court. All the lords of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince._

_Sweet one, listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with someone who is worthy of you, someone_ brave _and_ gentle _and_ strong _. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me._

_…or life will win out. And what then?_

Sansa gazed up at Jon, her heart pounding beneath her ribs. _Prince Aemon..._ She swallowed, her stomach aflutter. “I can give you the Stark name.”

Everyone in the room turned their gaze on the Lady of Winterfell. Jon’s brows furrowed, his guts twisting into knots.

“Jon and I will form a pact,” she continued, standing from her chair, nerves churning furiously inside her. “He will wed into House Stark. The name Snow will be discarded, and he’ll become Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North.”

While the northern lords and ladies exchanged glances, silently working out whether to agree to her proposal, Jon’s mouth had fallen open. Rendered speechless, he felt the shock of her words, felt himself teetering on the edge of something… _Is this really happening,_ he thought. _Is this something she’s truly willing to do?_

Not an hour ago they’d been brother and sister, albeit she’d seemed to have learned the truth of it long before he’d arrived, and now she was proposing a marriage pact. He suddenly remembered Stannis Baratheon’s words to him. _The surest way to seal a new alliance is with a marriage._

“It will need to happen quickly and quietly,” Sansa continued. “The sooner, the better; before word of Jon’s true identity spreads, before Daenerys Targaryen hears of it.” She thought for a moment. “Tonight, in the godswood, under cover of darkness.”

With one last glance among themselves, the lords and ladies assented. “Do you consent to this, Jon Snow?” Lord Royce asked him pointedly. “To wed Lady Stark, and to make her your queen when the time comes?”

He almost couldn’t hear through the dull roaring in his head. A terrifying sweep of emotion was overwhelming him, threatening to push him over the edge, spurred on by the panic that made his insides at once tighten with anxiety and then loosen with joy.

“Jon.”

Hearing the catch in her voice, he turned to look at Sansa. She swallowed, her eyes pleading with him. He nodded. “Aye. I consent.”

Yohn Royce gave a half smile. “Then your claim to the Iron Throne has the full backing of the Vale.”

 _“And_ the North,” Lyanna Mormont maintained, arching her brow at him.

“We’ll reconvene in the godswood after the sun sets,” Sansa commanded, anxious anticipation rising inside her as she met Jon’s intense gaze.

*****

One by one, the lords and ladies departed the room. Without hesitation, she turned back to the table and lifted the silver bell, giving it a gentle ring. She then reached for a piece of crisp white parchment, tearing it into several strips. Lifting a sharpened quill, she lowered the tip into a small jar of black ink, and then began writing a short message on each strip of parchment.

The door to the council chambers opened, and Marna the serving girl appeared. “Lady Stark.”

“Can you find my sister and ask her to join us here?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Jon watched the girl leave the room just as quickly as she’d entered and then turned his attention on Sansa. “What are you writing? And to whom?”

She finished off the last strip of parchment. “I want to know just how determined people are to see Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne.” She began rolling up the strips into small scrolls. “Perhaps their minds can be changed. Perhaps they deserve the chance to choose a different side.”

Several moments later, Arya stepped into the room and took the scrolls from Sansa. Once she was gone again, Jon spoke. “Is this really a job for our…” He paused. “Your sister?”

“Arya has a great many skills,” she replied, noticing the hiccup in his word choice. “Thanks to the Faceless Men of Braavos. Stealth is one of them.”

 _Faceless Men? Braavos?_ Jon shook his head. He had so many questions for Arya, and for Bran. He might never learn the answers.

Less than two hours later, he was sitting beside Sansa at the table in the council chambers. Arya, Bran, and Samwell Tarly sat to their left. The four chairs facing them across the room were filled all but one. Those present were silent, waiting patiently. The door then opened, and Tyrion Lannister entered.

His eyes widened upon admittance, and cautiously made his way over to the empty chair next to his brother. “I guess I wasn’t the only one summoned.”

“Hello, Tyrion,” Jaime greeted him. “If Cersei could see us now.”

The youngest Lannister gazed about the room uneasily.

Lord Varys crossed his arms. “Well, this _is_ fascinating. Are we now to learn the mystery of why we’re all here, Lady Stark?”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Jorah Mormont sighed. Sansa eyed him, signaling him out as the most loyal to Daenerys out of all who were present. She gave them a hint of a smile. “Yes. I called you here to inform you there is going to be a wedding ceremony tonight in the godswood.”

The four men stared back at her, blinking.

“A wedding,” Varys replied. “And pray tell, who is getting married?”

“Me and Jon.”

The men’s brows furrowed, and their perplexed gaze shifted to Jon. He stared back at them with a calm face, his expression unreadable.

Tyrion scoffed. “You can’t marry your sister. Right, Jaime?”

Everyone in the room shot him a pointed look. The Kingslayer rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair.

“I’m not going to wed my sister,” Jon admitted. “I am going to wed my cousin.”

Three pairs of narrowed, suspicious eyes stared at him and Sansa. Tyrion glanced at his brother’s unsurprised demeanor. “You know something I don’t?”

Jaime gave a nod towards the table in front of them. “I’m sure you’re about to find out.”

Sansa turned to Bran and Sam. “Go ahead. Tell them.”

A little while later, occupants of the room were once again stunned into silence. Sansa played with her fingers in her lap. “I just wanted you all to be aware that, ignoring Cersei…”

“Not an easy task,” Tyrion interrupted her.

“There are _two_ claims to the Iron Throne,” she continued with a sharp glare in the dwarf’s direction. “Obviously, one is much stronger than the other. But I wanted you all to have the chance to decide which claim you want to support, with full knowledge of both parties. It’s been said that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. And that every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip the coin, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. So, the choice is yours, my lords. Do you want madness on the throne, or greatness?”

Lord Varys and Tyrion exchanged uneasy glances. Jorah Mormont’s face hardened, his mouth forming a thin line. “I will not be involved in this. Just my presence in this room could be seen as a betrayal. There is no one in this world who deserves my allegiance more than Daenerys.”

Sansa watched him begin to move toward the chamber door. “Ser Jorah?”

He turned back but remained silent.

“You said Samwell Tarly cured your greyscale, did you not?” she recalled.

“Yes, my lady. He did.”

She pursed her lips, nodded. “And would you say that you are in his debt?”

The disgraced knight of House Mormont acquiesced. “I owe him my life.”

Sansa exchanged a knowing glance with Bran, and then focused her attention to the man sitting beside her brother. “Sam, have you heard from your family of late? Any news from your mother… your father, or your brother?”

Brows furrowing, he shot her a perplexed look. “No, my lady. I honestly doubt they even know I am at Winterfell.”

Turning from him, she watched Tyrion Lannister close his eyes and heave a sigh, rubbing the area between his brows. Varys appeared resigned. Jaime Lannister’s face hardened into a hateful expression. Ser Jorah looked just as nonplussed as Sam, and Jon. Sansa again addressed her brother. “Tell him, Bran.”

Turning his head, Bran Stark spoke to Sam the painful truths that Sansa couldn’t bring herself to speak of. Samwell Tarly was such a kind, devoted person. He loved his wildling girl, Gilly, and their child. He loved Jon. He’d formed almost an immediate kinship with Bran and declared to her than any family of Jon’s would be his family. She’d started to doubt whether he would ever return to Castle Black and had begun to think of Winterfell as his home now, too.

“Dickon?” Sam finally lamented when Bran finished speaking. He turned toward Tyrion, Jaime, and Varys, his eyes welling up with tears. “Is this true? Did Daenerys burn them? Did she burn my brother?”

They nodded sullenly. Jorah Mormont stood motionless, eyes wide, brows furrowed in dismay. Anger flooded Jon’s gut like molten gold, wanting nothing more than to get his hands around the dragon queen’s neck and squeeze the life from her. He gazed at his friend. Upon meeting his eye, Sam’s face crumpled, and he began to cry, choking sobs that shook his whole body. Getting up from where he lay at Jon’s feet, Ghost moved quietly over to him and began licking the salty tears from his cheeks. Hands sinking into the white fur, Sam hugged the direwolf close, tears streaming down his face.

Face contorted in anguish, Jorah Mormont grasped hold of the latch and opened the door.

Sansa called out to him. “Ser Jorah?”

He stared back at her. “Yes, Lady Stark?”

“Are you sure you’re on the right side? Choose wisely.”

Without another word, Mormont exited the room. Sansa then directed her hardening gaze at Tyrion Lannister and Lord Varys. “Now, what say you?”

Getting up from his chair, Tyrion approached the table and poured himself a cup of mulled wine, and another, bringing it over to Varys. He then lifted his own. “All hail King Jon. Long may he reign.” Lifting the cup to his lips, he quickly downed its contents.

Not long after, Jon and Sansa were alone inside the council chambers. “We should head to our rooms and prepare for the ceremony,” she said, her stomach again fluttering anxiously.

He nodded, still unable to believe what was happening, at how much his life had changed in just the span of a few hours. “What do you think Mormont is going to do?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I imagine he’ll keep quiet and sit on the information for a while until the time comes to act,” she maintained as they moved toward the door. “He may have been exiled to Essos and spent years serving Daenerys Targaryen, but he’s still a son of House Mormont. He’s still a northman. With the line of succession clearly in your favor, coupled with the acclimation of Winterfell and the Stark name, I can’t imagine anyone in the realm standing behind her in favor over you. This is our chance to keep us safe, to keep our home safe, and our people out from under the oppressive yolk of southern rulers who know nothing of the North.”

Jon gazed at her sadly. Is that why she was marrying him? Just so he can have her claim? Of course, that was her reason. Why would he hope for anything different? His heart began sinking within him. In truth, he wanted a marriage of passion, not politics. But wouldn’t that be better than not having her at all? He wasn’t sure.

“Sansa, I need you to know something,” he murmured as he grasped hold of the door latch, something twisting in his gut. “I need things to be clear between us.”

She stood and stared at him, brows knitting. Nerves filled her stomach at the earnest look of tenderness on his face. “What, Jon?”

“I’m not marrying you for your claim, for Winterfell, or the Stark name. I can be king without those things. I don’t need them to rule. I’m the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and I have a claim of my own. We surely could find another way to appease the northern lords. I agreed to the marriage pact because…” He paused, gazing into her eyes, a mixture of emotions flickering across her face.

She felt the air in the room suddenly change again, the swirling tension all around them. She returned his intense gaze. His eyes held fire, and she was snared by them. Feeling overwhelmed by it, she averted her eyes and looked down. Moving forward, Jon pressed his mouth to her forehead. He reached to grasp hold of her arms and moved his head, brushing his lips lightly across her brow with a gentle passion that surprised her, a gentleness that hinted of safety and comfort, but also desire. Something in the pit of her stomach tightened fiercely. Warmth and some unknown emotion flared through her.

Jon stilled and lifted his mouth from her forehead to look into her eyes, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles against her arms. “I consented to marry you because I _want_ to be your husband. But if you do not truly want to be my wife, then don’t come to the godswood.”

He then turned to leave the council chambers, Sansa staring after him, the thrum of her heart like a drum beating beneath her ribs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As distressing news reaches Winterfell, another wedding in the godswood dredges up painful memories of Sansa's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been written for the Day 3 prompt, "Almost All the Way," for Jonsa Smut Week.
> 
> Sidenote #1: ALL of the trigger tags apply to this chapter, so please be mindful if this would be upsetting to you. But I can promise you things will eventually get better for both Sansa and Jon. A LOT better.
> 
> Sidenote #2: I was listening to "Truth" from the S7 soundtrack on repeat while writing this chapter and that's pretty much the mood here.

Late in the afternoon, Winterfell’s Great Hall rang with music, the clack of plates and cups atop wooden tables, and the buzz of conversation. Nearly five hundred Unsullied, Dothraki, southron, and northmen supped on mulled wine and roast meat. More torches and candles were lit as the sky slowly began to darken. Outside, the cold winter wind blew, and the snow began to fall heavily. Jon and Daenerys sat side by side on the dais at the back of the hall, Tyrion and Varys to her left, Bran and Arya to his right.

“Lady Stark’s absence is noticed,” Daenerys ventured before sipping her wine.

“She’s preoccupied at the moment,” informed Jon. “Following supper, there’s to be a ceremony in the godswood.”

Tyrion and Varys froze, slowly turning their heads to throw a wide-eyed, sideways glance.

Setting her cup down, she pursed her lips. “What kind of ceremony?”

“A religious one,” he answered matter-of-factly. “The war is swiftly approaching, and tonight we will seek the blessing and protection of the gods.”

“And what gods are those?” Daenerys inquired.

Jon considered her, a vision of Sam’s father and brother consumed with dragonfire coming unbidden to his mind, the threat of the same fate awaiting other families in the realm. He clenched his jaw. “The old gods; the gods of the Starks and the First Men.”

Smirking, Tyrion drank from his fourth cup of wine. “The people of the North pray to the trees.”

“And do you believe the trees are listening?” She turned an amused smile on Jon. “That they can hear you?”

“There is great power in the weirwood,” he related, shooting an irritated glance in Tyrion’s direction. “And the weirwood heart tree of Winterfell’s godswood is as ancient as anything in this world. Brandon the Builder constructed the castle around the grove and prayed to the heart tree. My father would always visit the godswood after he took a man’s life. Whenever us children were caught doing something we ought not or were so burdened by guilt we confessed our crimes, he’d order us to cleanse ourselves in the godswood. And he’d post guards at the gates to ensure we remained there all night long.”

Jon smiled at the memory, but a lingering sadness welled up inside him. He wanted to hold onto those memories forever, but they now felt tarnished. He wasn’t truly ready to accept this new identity that belonged to him.

“I believe I would like to see this ceremony tonight,” she declared.

Tyrion and Varys exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

“No,” Jon rebuked gently. “Our gods are not your gods. It wouldn’t be proper for you to be present.”

Daenerys gave him an affronted look and started to protest, but Tyrion placed a calming hand on her forearm. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t interfere with your prayers to the trees,” she jeered, unable to hide the irritation in her voice.

He made no reply and lifted his cup, emptying the last of his wine.

Outside the Great Hall’s windows, dusk fell, the castle yard becoming dotted with lamplight. One by one, the lords and ladies of northern houses turned their gaze to the raised platform. Jon caught their eye and nodded. He stood up from his chair and turned to Daenerys. “I bid you good night, my queen. Lord Tyrion. My presence is soon required in the godswood.”

She reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. “You’ll come to me later, won’t you?” she whispered.

Something twisted in his gut as he looked down at her. How was he supposed to keep this up? He shook his head, trying to appear regretful. “Not tonight,” Jon stalled. “Tonight belongs to the gods.”

He turned and walked away from the table, heading for the rear exit. “There he goes, off to pray to his trees,” Tyrion called after him, his voice thick with wine.  

 _“Dragons_  don't care for trees,” Daenerys insinuated, a hint of superiority in her voice.

“Maybe some of them do,” the dwarf murmured.

Jon then entered the dimly-lit gallery that connected the hall to the Great Keep, leaving the noise and the unwanted company behind. He was soon inside his bedchambers on the top floor of the Great Keep’s tower, what had once been Lady Catelyn’s private quarters. They were the warmest in the keep, the scalding water of the hot springs beneath the castle pumped through its walls, and he rarely needed a fire lit in the hearth. He had briefly toyed with the idea of knocking on the lord’s chambers down the other end of the torch-lit hall, where he knew Sansa was within, and then quickly discarded the notion. He’d wanted to ask her if she had decided to meet him in the godswood but couldn’t bring himself to ask her directly. He’d find out soon enough.

Inside the heated room, he passed by the adjacent hot and steaming bath where he had washed before supper and stepped over to the canopied bed. A freshly-washed set of woolens lay atop the mattress. When he’d first set foot in these chambers after his return to Winterfell, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find Sansa had filled his wardrobe with clothing she’d sewn while he was away. Most of his clothes had been made by her hand or mended by it. He donned the grey woolen doublet with a white direwolf on the breast, the inverted colors of House Stark signifying he was a Snow. If Sansa showed herself in the godswood, then this was the last night he would ever wear it. After fastening his fur-lined cloak of black wool about his shoulders, he left his rooms.

Inside the lord’s chambers, Marna and two other serving girls had filled Sansa’s tub with steaming hot water and then scrubbed her clean from head to toe. They trimmed her nails and brushed out her long hair until it shone and sprang back in thick auburn curls. On a table beside the bed were a variety of perfumes. She chose the sharp sweet flowery fragrance with a hint of lemon in it, the one she knew Jon liked. He’d once made a remark about her sweet scent being a pleasant change from the sweaty men sword training in the castle yard. She’d given him a surprised smile at the compliment and his cheeks had flushed as he averted his eyes from hers. The memory made her smile, sent her stomach aflutter with nerves.

Marna dabbed some of the perfume on her finger and then touched Sansa on each wrist, behind her ears, the dip between her collarbones, on the tips of her breasts, and one last dab, cool on her warm flesh, down between her legs. She instantly stiffened, the fluttery nerves in the pit of her stomach suddenly tightening into a knot. She felt fear rising into her throat, her breath becoming rapid and shallow.

The oldest maid, the wife of one of Winterfell’s guardsmen, then opened the carved wardrobe and pulled out the wedding clothes. Sansa’s eyes widened as she recognized the gown as having once belonged to her mother, momentarily distracted from the rising dread within her.

“When the ironmen attacked the castle, we managed to hide some things for safe keeping, my lady,” the woman said. “I remember when Lady Catelyn first wore this to the harvest feast following young Lord Rickon’s birth and your lord father couldn’t take his eyes off her, may the gods give them rest. The way he looked at her, I thought surely there would soon be another babe on the way.” She chuckled.

Then Sansa was dressed. The smallclothes and shift were made of silk, but the gown was soft ivory lambswool with a long and full skirt, lined with silvery-grey satin. The long sleeves hugged her arms in its soft warmth. The bodice of the gown was slashed in the back nearly to her bottom, her bare skin partially covered over with silvery-grey laces. The waist was tight to her figure, and she’d held her breath as the maidservants had laced her into it. They brought out a pair of her lady mother’s shoes as well, boots of soft grey doeskin. A cloak was then slipped about her shoulders, heavy white wool bordered in grey fur, emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark. Her hands were donned with snug leather gloves, lined with grey fur to match her cloak.

After another cloak was fastened over her shoulders, black and hooded to hide what lay beneath, Sansa departed the lord’s chambers. When she returned, she’d have her new husband with her. As the door closed behind her, she felt as if her heart would explode, but she forced down her rising panic and descended the stairs to meet Bran and Arya who waited for her below.

*****

A convoy of northerners, lords and ladies, guardsmen and members of Winterfell’s household, attended Jon through the castle yard to the godswood. With torches in their hands, they lit the path to his impending nuptials. Unbeknownst to them, a rider dressed in black, nearly frozen and half-starved, was passing beneath the arched great main gates and over the lowered drawbridge into the castle, his horse dying under him. Guards came forward, cutting the lame and starving beast loose, and took the man in black into the gatehouse for questioning.

Once the convoy reached the grove, guardsmen were posted at the iron gate as well as the smaller wooden ones dispersed throughout its enclosed walls, barring entry to anyone unwanted. After Jon had passed through the main gate, he took the familiar walkway that led to the weirwood tree, the path illuminated with iron lanterns to show them the way. The godswood of Winterfell was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years. In the center of the grove was a small pool, dark and deep, beside an ancient weirwood heart tree. The weirwood had blood-red leaves and bark white as bone, with a long and melancholy face carved into it, its deep-cut eyes red from dried sap.

The air was usually warmer inside the godswood than in the courtyard, with the ground remaining unfrozen, the small ponds within fed by an underground hot spring, steam often rising from their surface. But tonight, the godswood was cold. The multitude of trees created a dense snow-covered canopy. The paths of the frozen ground were hazardous with black ice, and drifts of snow had piled up inside the wall around the grove. Icicles long as lances hung from the tallest tree branches.

Above Jon’s head the trees were full of ravens, their feathers ruffling as they crouched on snow-covered branches, staring down at the spectacle below. They were Maester Luwin’s ravens. Despite all that had happened to Winterfell, attacked by the Ironborn and then the Boltons, left burned and broken, the ravens had never abandoned the castle and their home in the godswood. Upon sight of the intruders, the ravens began muttering to one another, the sound growing louder the more he neared the center of the grove.

The hoarfrost surface of the black pool soon appeared in front of him with the ancient weirwood looming just beside it, iron lanterns lit all around. Ravens had flocked to its thick branches, spread far and wide, jet black hidden among the dark red leaves. Removing his fur-lined cloak and handing it to one of the guards, Jon moved to stand in front of the heart tree, clad in boots of soft grey leather and his grey woolen doublet. All he could hear was the murderous muttering in the tree branches above and his own anxious breathing. His heart struggled for calmness. What if she didn’t come? What if she did? But what if she didn’t?

And then he saw her. The small crowd parted to reveal his bride walking toward the heat tree, Bran by her side, his chair pushed by Arya, Brienne of Tarth coming up behind them. As she drew closer, Jon felt his pulse quicken with every step she took. Sansa was far more beautiful than he ever could have imagined, garbed in the white and grey of House Stark. Her long auburn hair was partly tied back in a northern braid, with a cascade of soft curls falling over her shoulders.

Sansa had been here before, had walked toward the weirwood to meet a waiting groom. She wanted to forget. Had tried so hard to forget. She thought she had. But in truth, she’d only allowed other concerns to take precedent, her focus on her duties and the wars to come, not on herself and her feelings, which were now threatening to pull her under.

And then she was standing in front of him before the heart tree. She couldn’t meet his gaze. The pit of her stomach was in a knot so tight it ached. She wanted to run. She wanted to weep for fear.

Jon’s heart pounded inside his chest. Swallowing, he licked his lips, his guts twisting with nerves. “Who comes before the gods?”

Bran answered. “Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do,” he said. “Jon Snow of House Stark, King in the North, heir to the Iron Throne. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Brandon of House Stark, her father’s eldest living trueborn son.” He turned to his sister. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?”

For a long moment she didn’t speak, painful memories threatening to resurface. As she tried desperately to mask her fear, she finally raised her eyes to his, blue eyes meeting brown. His were soft and gentle, full of tenderness, and just as frightened as she felt. The knots inside slightly loosened. One look at Jon’s face as he stood between her and the heart tree, and she knew. He wasn’t marrying her for her claim to Winterfell, for power, for a throne. He was marrying her for love. He loved her.

“I take this man,” Sansa whispered, her voice full of restrained emotion.

Jon’s heart leapt at her words and he let out a small gasp of delight. Stepping forward, he took hold of her hands, holding them affectionately. All around them the lantern light glimmered through the falling snow. Arya pulled Bran’s chair back. Hands still joined, Jon and Sansa knelt before the heart tree, bowing their heads, a demonstration of submission. In the branches overhead, ravens fluttered their wings. The deep red eyes carved into the pale trunk watched them, yet Jon took comfort from that. _The gods are looking over us,_ he told himself; the old gods, their father’s gods. He felt safe in their midst, in the deep silence of the trees around him.

After a moment of silent prayer, begging the gods of the wood to grant them strength and courage and victory over their enemies, Jon and Sansa rose again. She undid the cloak that had been slipped about her shoulders, the heavy white wool cloak bordered in grey fur, emblazoned with the grey direwolf. She then fastened the cloak around his shoulders, the name Jon Snow to now be discarded and forgotten. Jon Stark had taken its place.

Simple as that, the wedding was done. In the North, there were no priests or sermons or vows. Had this been a particularly joyous occasion under different circumstances, Jon would have scooped his bride up and strode through the godswood with her in his arms all the way to the Great Hall, where they would’ve feasted in her honor. But there would be no feast tonight, nor would there be a traditional bedding, nothing that would draw unwelcome attention. Arm in arm, Jon and Sansa silently made their way back to the main iron gate, the convoy of protection surrounding them, Arya and Bran remaining behind at the heart tree.

Stepping out of the grove, Sansa and Jon were once again cloaked in black. The noise that greeted them was a shock after the silence of the godswood. Supper having ended, occupants of the Great Hall were spilling out into the castle yard, heading for their quarters in the winter town, the nearby camps, or the Guest House. Then guardsmen were suddenly running towards them, shouting.

“Lady Stark! Lady Stark!”

“What is it?” she hissed, wanting them to quiet down so as not to draw the attention of prying eyes.

They soon reached her, out of breath. “A man of the Night’s Watch rode through the gates not long ago.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “What name did he give?”

“We couldn’t get a name out of him, Your Grace,” the guard insisted. “We tried, but he’s too ill or distressed. He’s young, though.”

“All he would say is ‘they’re coming, they’re coming,’” another guard blurted, his eyes widening. “‘Tell Jon Snow they’re coming.’ We weren’t sure what to make of it.”

Jon paled, his gut clenching. Surely, they knew what to make of it, deep down, just as he did. The fear in their eyes told him so. They only hoped they were wrong.

The guardsmen glanced at each other. “Should we throw him in the dungeon, m’lady? He’ll have to be punished as a deserter.”

Speechless, she turned to her new husband. The look on his face wasn’t reassuring. Memories of long ago sprung to Jon’s mind, remembering that fateful day Lord Eddard Stark beheaded the Night’s Watch deserter for running south from the White Walkers. “No,” he told the guards. “Take him to the Bell Tower and give him a sickroom.” He was curious about the man’s identity but couldn’t bear to look one of his black brothers in the eye, knowing he’d abandoned them to their fate.

The sound of the iron gate and the familiar crunching of snow filled the air, and they turned to see Bran in his wheeled chair coming towards them with Arya. “It happened again,” she told them. “In the godswood. He had another vision.”

Jon met Bran’s gaze. “The Night King is through the Wall,” his brother said. “And he has a dragon. I should have been able to see sooner, but I was prevented somehow. I’m sorry.”

A dragon. The one that had been killed on that disastrous trip north of the Wall. They’d played right into the Night King’s hand. He wanted to retch. Closing his eyes, breathing heavily, he could feel the panic rising. He’d left so many behind on the Wall. Tormund. Dolorous Edd. _Satin._ And who was the man they were taking to the tower sickroom? He couldn’t think about that. “How long before they reach Winterfell?”

“Six days,” Bran related ominously. “If not sooner.”

“We have to organize our forces,” Jon declared to the lords bannermen, turning from his brother. “We must march north as soon as possible, prevent them from reaching the castle.” They had to act quickly.

Robett Glover fixed him a hard glare. “You’re going to take your wife up to your bedchamber and consummate this marriage. And hopefully get a child in her belly before you march off to war.”

Nodding, Lord Manderly agreed. “Aye. Lord Glover speaks true. You have a wife who needs to be bedded, and you may not return. All the more necessary for Lady Stark to be carrying the heir to the throne.”

Jon and Sansa’s eyes met and held.  _Why did this have to happen now,_  he thought bitterly. 

Taking a deep breath, trying to stem the fear rising once again, she forced herself to keep her voice steady. “They’re right. Our pact will be all in vain if we don’t.”

“I can speak to the leader of Daenerys Targaryen’s forces, that Grey Worm,” the captain of Winterfell’s guard blurted to Jon. “We can organize while you’re…” He paused. “Doing your duty.”

“Go,” he commanded. His head was swimming, filled to the brim with anxious thoughts of Sansa and the fast-approaching war, Daenerys and her dragons.

After issuing further instructions to the guardsmen as well as the lords bannermen, Jon turned to Sansa and held out his hand. Heart beating furiously beneath her ribs, she slipped her palm into his. They were soon led up the grey stone steps of the Great Keep’s tallest tower, Maester Wolkan carrying a torch ahead of them. It wasn’t long before they’d reached the oak door to the lord’s chambers.

Following Sansa’s first wedding, she’d feasted in dread of the bedding. She believed all would happen according to tradition, that men would carry her up to her bridal chamber, undressing her all the way and making vulgar jokes about the fate that awaited her in the wedding bed, while the women did the same to Tyrion. Once they both had been placed together in the bed would they have been left alone in the room, while the guests would have stood outside the bedchamber, shouting bawdy jests through the door. The bedding ceremony had seemed wonderfully exciting when she was a young girl, but upon her first marriage it had only filled her with dread. Thankfully, Tyrion had prevented it from occurring.

When she’d finally left King’s Landing and was safely stowed away in the Vale, she’d begun to imagine the life she wanted for herself. She still desired love and marriage and children. Suddenly the idea of a bedding didn’t sound so terrible. The thought of being undressed for a man she loved, for a man who loved her, by friends who loved them both, who wished them nothing but lifelong happiness and healthy children, was once again a dream that filled her with excitement and hope.

But then she was married a second time.

Wolkan opened the door to the lord’s chambers, and they were greeted by Marna and the two other maidservants. They curtseyed and stepped out into the hallway, Sansa instructing them to remain outside with the maester as witnesses. He sighed in response, his demeanor once again inconvenienced.

“Yes, maester, I know,” she placated. “We need a steward. When… this… is finished, report to the lords that the deed is done. Then you may return to the rookery. And please attend to our visitor from Castle Black and see that he’s taken care of.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Steeling herself, Sansa walked into her chambers, Jon following quietly behind her. She then closed the door.

*****

The bedchamber had been prepared well for the consummation. A fire crackled in the grey stone hearth. Candles were lit around the room, from the windowsill to the bedside table. A flagon of hot spice wine, two cups, a half wheel of sharp white cheese, and a small knife were placed on the sideboard. The granite floor was covered with plush white bearskins, gifts from the free folk. The great canopied bed had a feather mattress, drapes of dove-grey velvet, and corner posts carved in the likeness of wolves’ heads.

Silently, Jon removed his cloak and placed it on the oak chair with grey velvet cushions that had once belonged to Eddard Stark. His gaze took in the candlelit bedside table that also contained traces of her femininity, small bottles of perfumes and jars of scented bath oil. He stared across the room as Sansa placed her black hooded cloak inside the wardrobe and removed her leather gloves. His hands fiddled with the hem of his woolen doublet, his mind suddenly on the hideous scars that lay beneath. She would soon see his ugliness. _You deserve better,_ he wanted to tell her. But the words refused to come, and he simply watched her in silence.

Turning from the wardrobe, her eyes met his. Sansa’s heart pounded, her breath becoming rapid and shallow. _You’re safe,_ she fervently told herself. _You’re safe, you’re safe._ But it was difficult to stop the fear rising. Jon was exactly the sort of man she should have for her husband, a man brave and gentle and strong, just as her father had wanted for her. But the thought of being touched was enough to make her break out into a sweat.

As he gazed into her eyes, Jon’s face fell. She was trembling, and not with desire. She was clearly afraid. “Sansa,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you. And that it happened here, in Winterfell, where you should have felt safe and protected.”

Her eyes pricked with tears. “I’m safe and protected _now_. You once promised that you’d protect me, remember?”

“Aye, I remember,” Jon recounted, his voice somber. “And you said no one could.”

 _You’re safe._ “I was right, but I was also wrong,” she confessed. “I know I've told you to stop trying to protect me. But you _have_ protected me. You’ve kept me safe. By helping me reclaim Winterfell. By accepting the title of King in the North. By…” She swallowed. “By consenting to marry me.”

Security and protection, that’s all he’d given her. Jon sighed. He wanted to give her so much more.

Playing with her fingers, averting her eyes, Sansa continued. “When you announced you were going to Dragonstone, I became afraid. Not just fear for your life, but for mine, for what could become of me if anything happened to you. It was then I’d realized how wrong I’d been. I know that in truth, no one can protect anyone. At any moment, any of us could perish.” She paused, taking a deep steadying breath. “But _you_ made me _feel_ protected, having you with me made me _feel_ safe, for the first time since Father died. Even here, in my home, where at one time I _wasn’t_ protected, I _wasn’t_ safe, when the worst things imaginable… When he…” She closed her eyes, sighing. She didn’t want to speak about him. She didn’t want to think about him. She wanted to forget. If only she could.

Jon frowned in sympathy, his brows furrowed in distress. He didn’t know if he could go through with the consummation. He wanted to have her, desperately, but not at the cost of her pain. Hells, his pain. The thought of her in Ramsay Bolton’s bed still made his stomach turn. At times he wished she’d allowed him to beat the life from his body. “We don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

“Yes, we do,” Sansa insisted, emboldening herself.

“All right,” he sighed. Rubbing his hand across his furrowed brow, he shook his head. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined our first night together. It certainly had nothing to do with necessity or duty.”

She stared at him. “You… You pictured us together? Like this?”

He nodded. “More times than I could count.”

Brows knitting, she swallowed. “You mean, just recently? Since learning we were no longer brother and sister?”

Shame and guilt rose up inside him as his face reddened. He licked his lips, hesitating to answer. Finally, he shook his head. “For a long time.”

Their eyes met and held, transfixed. Sansa felt her face grow hot, warmth and that unknown emotion flaring through her once again. She wondered just how long but couldn’t bring herself to ask.

Jon watched as she turned from him, avoiding his gaze, kicking off her boots of doeskin, her hands going behind her back to pull at the laces of her gown. Sitting on the chair, he removed his own leather boots. His hands moved to the front laces of his doublet and began loosening them. No longer snug against his chest, he pulled it off and over his head, dropping it to the floor. He looked up to see Sansa staring at him, still in her wedding dress.

She swallowed, anxious tears pricking her eyes once more. “I can’t get the laces undone,” she murmured.

Nodding, he stood up from the chair and then froze under her gaze. Eyes widening, she took in the scars on his chest and stomach. He moved towards her, crossing the room until he stood inches away, all the while her gaze roaming over the grotesque blemishes in his skin. Allowing Daenerys to see him hadn’t made him nearly this anxious. He’d simply deflected her questions about his survival, crediting the quick and skillful hands of his brothers at the Wall. Exposing his deformation to Sansa brought on an entirely different feeling. He may have been a king, but he wasn’t the prince of her girlhood dreams. She deserved so much better.

Gaping at him, Sansa felt the shock begin to wear off. She’d known since her first night in Castle Black what had happened to him, that he’d been murdered, that the red woman brought him back. But she had never seen the evidence of it. Mesmerized, she reached out to touch his scarred, muscled torso, her fingers gently caressing the rather nasty mark just over his heart. No man could ever have survived such a thing. And yet here he was.

Jon’s lips parted, and his breathing grew shallow at her touch, his groin tightening. He wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. He simply stared.

Swallowing, she gazed up into his face. The black of his pupils had grown larger, his eyes darkening with a glazed look, and his nostrils flared with each breath. Still touching his skin, his eyes held hers. _Men have hurt him too,_ she reminded herself. _Men he trusted. They took his very life._ Removing her fingers from his chest, she turned around, showing her back to him, her stomach twisted nervously.

She felt his hands against the back of her ivory gown. _It’s okay, you’re safe._ He slowly ran his hand up and down the crisscrossed laces. Jon’s hands trembled as he began unlacing the bodice, his warm fingers brushing the bare flesh beneath. Sansa wrung her own hands in front of her, desperately trying to shove down the memory of different laces, a different gown, a different man. _You’re safe, you’re safe._

The lacings of the bodice loose, Jon grasped hold of the edges. “May I?”

Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, Sansa nodded and lifted her arms out from her sides. Hardening with determination, she told herself not to flinch, or show any sign of fear. If she did, he would surely refuse to go any further and she needed him to, for their future depended on it. His hands pushed the back of the gown forward and down, his gentle fingers brushing her skin as she pulled her arms out of the long sleeves. The dress fell to the floor, the full skirt in a heap of a circle around her ankles.

He stared at her bare back, at the silk shift hugging her shape, accentuating her hips, her ass. He felt his body respond. Sansa turned around, staring at her entwined fingers, feeling her face grow hot, her stomach knotting so tight it ached. Goosebumps covered her arms and legs. Then she glanced up and their gaze met, held. The eyes looking back at her weren’t pale blue, cruel, filled with bloodlust. There was indeed hunger in Jon’s brown eyes, but there was also tenderness and affection.  

His gaze lowered from her face, taking in the silk fabric that clung to her body. He couldn’t help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under the shift as she breathed. Jon wanted to grab her and kiss her. He wanted to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands. He wanted to throw her down on the bed. But he could only stand there, staring, his erect cock throbbing against the taut lacings of his dark grey breeches. He couldn’t make the first move. It had to be her.

Sansa then undid her braid with anxious fingers, the rest of her long red hair falling over her shoulders. Stepping out of the gown bunched on the floor, she moved closer to Jon and reached up to the back of his head, pulling until his hair was no longer bound. His soft black curls fell loose. She gazed into his face, and there he was – the handsome boy of her youth, before they’d left Winterfell all those years ago, before their worlds turned upside down. When he’d still been her half-brother. She quickly pushed the thought away.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” she whispered, surprised he’d made no move to touch her.

“I’m waiting for you.”

Her brows knitted, her heart pounded, her stomach twisted. _You’re safe._ Turning around, she climbed onto the featherbed and sat against the pillows. There was a tightness in her chest and a lump the size of a boulder in her throat, and the prickle of tears in her eyes. The awful memories were rushing forward, and she felt desperate to push them away, bury them, but they wouldn’t stay down. He’d forced himself inside, pumping brutally. She’d screamed and cried until she had grown hoarse. She’d felt like her entire body was coming apart. She’d sobbed and prayed for rescue, for death – for anything that would end her nightmare. And all for nothing. Night after night he’d come to her bedchamber, and it would start all over again.

Sansa lifted her face to Jon’s anxious gaze. Their eyes met and held. Another memory forced its way into her mind.

_I won't ever let him touch you again. I’ll protect you, I promise._

He’d kept his promise. She was alive. He was alive. And life was all that mattered. _It’s okay, you’re safe._ The tears in her eyes welled up, threatening to brim over. “Undress and get on the bed, Jon,” she whispered.

His heart hammered in his chest. Swallowing, Jon undid the lacings of his breeches and pulled them down, quickly realizing he hadn’t troubled himself with smallclothes when he’d dressed earlier. His hard cock sprang free of its tight confines, jutting from his body, and he let out a shudder of relief. Sansa’s eyes widened, her lips parted. Every part of her attention was focused on his manhood nestled in a crown of midnight curls. She quickly looked away, her stomach in knots. He was so much bigger than… Than… _Don’t think about him_ , she chided herself.

She forced her gaze back down and was again awestruck at his size, but also his beauty. To her surprise, his manhood didn’t appear ugly like the others she’d seen. But the size of him… What if she couldn’t accommodate him? Please him? What if it only caused her more pain? _It’s okay, you’re safe._

Getting onto the mattress of the great canopy bed, Jon moved towards her on his hands and knees as she slid down until her head rested on a pillow. Sansa stared up at the velvet drapes, refusing to meet his gaze, her chest heaving and her heart racing. She felt his hands slide up her thighs toward her hips, felt his fingers take hold of her silken smallclothes beneath the shift and pull them down her legs. Every muscle suddenly tensed, her breath becoming rapid and shallow, as his hands went to the hem of her silk shift and pushed it up and over her head, tossing it to the floor.

“Can I touch you?” he whispered huskily.

Sansa hesitated, keeping her steady gaze on the canopy above. _You’re safe._ Letting out a deep breath, she nodded. “Yes.”

Jon sat on his knees between her legs, gently pushing them apart until they rested on both sides of his hips and stared down at her. His hands went to her waist and hips, caressing up and down her sides. He shifted his gaze to stare at her soft and full and perfectly round breasts. Rubbing his hands up and down her thighs, he reveled in the feel of her soft, milky skin, and meaty flesh. He stared at her center, at her patch of auburn curls that hid her secret sweetness and groaned. Shifting back, lowering himself to the mattress, he spread her legs wider apart, desperate to taste her.

Sansa’s eyes flew from the dove-grey drapes to see Jon’s face moving between her thighs. She slammed them shut, forcing him out. “What are you doing?” she gasped.

Rendered speechless, he could only gape at her. “I… I…” He swallowed, licking his lips. “I just wanted to kiss you there.”

She wanted to ask why but thought better of it. Her stomach was still in tight, anxious knots. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His face fell. Get this over with? He didn’t want to _get this over with_. In the morning, he was going to ride off to war. He may never see her again. This might be his one chance to be with her. He wanted to make the most of it. He wanted to take his time. Running his hands over Sansa’s naked body had filled him with an intense hunger, lit a fire inside him. He wanted to explore every dip and curve, slowly watching for goose bumps to rise on her skin as the gentle caress of his fingers stoked the same fire inside of her. He wanted to taste her skin as it glistened in the candlelight. He wanted to tease her until she couldn’t take it anymore and her need to be filled by him became her greatest desire. He wanted emotions and his hands all over her, both inside and out. He wanted to make her cry out in pleasure over and over again. But tonight’s purpose wasn’t for any of that.

Disappointment filled his heart with a weight more hollow than sadness. “All right,” he sighed.

Jon slowly moved up Sansa’s body, softly kissing her skin as he went. She could feel his lips on her belly, her chest, her throat, her chin. And then he was hovering over her, gazing into her eyes. Thoughts of him filled her head.

 _Where will_ we _go?_

_I won't ever let him touch you again. I’ll protect you, I promise._

_We need to trust each other._

Sansa received him in trembling arms as Jon came down over her. Furrowing his brows, he reached between them, his hand tracing a path down her ribs, over the gentle swell of her belly, and down between her auburn curls. He felt her stiffen, her body tensing up. She held her breath as his fingers slid against the slit between her legs, caressing her warm flesh.

To her surprise, she was wet between her thighs, and her brows knitted in confusion. The finger tracing over her inner lips pushed inside her. Sansa tensed, fisting the bedsheets in her hands at his entrance. _You’re safe, you’re safe._ She bit her lip as she took a moment to adjust to him.

After she’d let out a deep breath, Jon pulled his finger out of her cunt and then slid two back inside. She wasn’t wet enough for that, and she gasped, her muscles clenching around him. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but her body had clamped down on him, trying to fight the intrusion. All she’d have to do was tell him to stop and she knew he would. But she didn’t want him to. This had to happen, and she wanted to trust him.

He pulled his hand away gently and gazed down into her face. Her eyes were slammed shut. “Sansa, look at me,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes.

“You have to relax, or this ends now. I’m not going to hurt you for the sake of _getting this over with.”_

Trembling, she nodded.

Jon gave her a small smile. “Just breathe.”

He then pressed his lips to hers, and she flooded his senses. Her thick, red hair smelled of flowers and lemon, a sharp and fresh scent that made him so hard it almost hurt. Sansa closed her eyes. Her mind went momentarily blank. Jon’s lips were soft and firm and warm against hers, and she opened to the gentle prod of his tongue without any hesitation. His lips caressed hers with such ease, that she could have sworn he’d been kissing her for days instead of just a few moments.

Jon’s tongue slowly unfolded inside her mouth, stroking her skin tenderly, firmly brushing against her own, caressing it. Sansa sighed against his lips. She’d never been kissed like this before. As her mouth opened under his, he moved his hands to her breasts. He felt her nipples stiffen as his thumbs brushed over them. She deliberately pressed closer, drawing herself against him. She felt warmth flowing through her, spreading to the tips of her fingers, down to her toes. Slowly, she let her hands explore his back, tracing over the soft skin covering hard layers of muscle. She spread her legs, instinctively lifting them up around his hips, and he settled between them. As her softness cushioned his hardness, some strange tingling sensation coiled at her center.

When she wrapped her legs around him, Jon thought they felt as strong as steel. His engorged erection prodded her center, throbbing and harder than he’d ever been before. Breaking their kiss, his hand reached between them again and he groaned when he felt her growing wetness, his fingers sliding easily, spreading her slick juices over the nub at her apex. “That’s better,” he said huskily.

Sansa tensed beneath him, her stomach twisting into tight knots once more. He gazed down at her, filling with worry. Jon then glanced at the bedside table, at the small jar of bath oil. Shifting away from her, he threw his arm out, unstoppering the lid, and thrust his fingers inside. Sitting on his knees between her legs, he took his oil-soaked fingers and grasped his erection, coating his cock until it glistened. The scent of raspberries filled the air around them, memories stirring in his mind, but he quickly forced them out.

Despite herself, a sudden vivid image of her in front of him, taking that part of him into her mouth, came unbidden to Sansa’s mind. But how could she possibly do that? He looked so hard, so large, against his own hand.

Jon moved to hover over her once more, his hips settling between her legs, his hand reaching down to rub the slick folds of her cunt with the remaining oil. He slid an oil-slicked finger inside, and then a second. “Sansa, am I hurting you?” he whispered, his mouth poised just above hers, a faint tremor in his arms.

 _You’re safe._ Her inner walls were adjusting more easily to his prodding fingers. “No.”

Sansa opened her eyes and Jon gazed down at her, satisfying his hunger with the sight of her perfect breasts, her lovely face, the feel of her tight heat around his fingers. She lay quietly in his arms without protest, her breathing becoming slow and deep, her body finally relaxing to his touch.

“Now,” she whispered.

He wondered if this was just part of getting it over with. “You want me?”

She nodded, something in the pit of her stomach tightening fiercely, anxious anticipation flooding her heart. Her breath lodged in her throat as she searched his dark eyes. “Yes.”

He then leaned down further, pressing against her, feeling her bare skin underneath him, her soft breasts caressing his muscled chest. As his swollen cock prodded the hot, slick folds of her entrance, he prayed to the gods for a miracle. He fervently hoped that the first time wouldn’t be the last. That they would survive the wars to come. That he would be given the chance to fill her life with happiness and children.

Jon gazed into her face, bringing his hand up, tenderly brushing her cheek and her jawline with his fingertips. Sansa felt like he was searching her face for something, like an answer or permission, maybe. But his eyes blazed, and she saw not just desire, but love, affection, devotion. And her heart swelled, full to bursting.

His other hand then guided his hard cock, throbbing with need, slowly into her cunt, filling her, feeling her inner walls close around him with their warmth and pressure. She bit down on her lip, a former reflex to silence any fearful noises that wanted to escape from her throat, panic rising once again. He was shifting on top of her, thrusting, stretching, sliding inside her. _Just breathe,_ she told herself. _It’s okay, you’re safe._

“Aahh, fuck, Sansa…,” he groaned into her ear as she clenched around him, hot and tight around his engorged flesh. “You feel good. Your cunt is so soft. I’ve needed you for so long.”

A whimpering noise escaped her. Releasing her bottom lip, realizing she felt no real pain, she let out a deep breath, trying to calm her fears. She was wet between her legs. A strange new sensation, she was wetter than she’d ever been before. As he started moving, he was slow and gentle, allowing her to adjust to the size of him inside her. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tighter, her fingers pressing into his back, trying to block the terrible memories that kept threatening to overtake her.

His hard cock throbbed with his sudden, intensely rising desire for her. Her soft, wet walls clutched at his pulsating flesh, and Jon’s thrusts into her tight heat became faster and deeper. He could sense his imminent release, his groin tightening, the tension in his balls building until he couldn’t take the pressure. “Sansa,” he groaned. “I can’t… I’m going to…” Moans escaped his throat.

He urgently shoved his hand between them, rubbing the slick nub at her center. “You have to come,” he groaned through gritted teeth.

Her brows knitting, she didn’t know what he meant, but the pressure of his fingers against her slick flesh sent sparks shooting through her. It was as though her body was betraying her and now begged for his touch. Something in the pit of her stomach tightened, tension between her legs coiling tighter, desperate for relief. She was on the verge of _something,_ her body straining for it. But whatever it was, she couldn’t reach it. Her mind was all confusion. She was still frantically trying to push away the memories that wouldn’t allow her muscles to unclench and relax, memories of being held down, being forced open.

Jon groaned deeply, pleasure surging through his body, coming faster and faster. He gazed down into her face, her eyes meeting his. His expression contorted with pleasure, with the pain of his ardent feelings for her. “I love you,” he sighed, hot tears pricking his eyes.

Sansa whimpered, and hugged him to her. Unable to hold back his release any longer, he brought his hand up behind her head, pressing her firmly against his mouth as he devoured her, possessed her, as if something hungry and desperate had burst open inside of him. While his other hand was still pressed against her slick nub, his needy cock thrusted urgently into where it belonged.

She then felt him push his arms underneath her, to hold her tight to his chest, burying one hand in her hair, pressing his face into her neck. And then his loud moans of pleasure filled her ears and she could feel his life begin to flood her womb. He cried out as she arched her hips tightly around him, clenching his shaft, spurts of his seed gushing from him in a thick hot torrent.

Jon and Sansa clung to each other as they gasped for breath, his body still throbbing until the intensity of the moment slowly dulled, the sensations fading into exhausted satisfaction. Keeping his mouth firmly on hers, he rolled them onto his side, not wanting to break contact and lose the sense of fulfillment that enveloped him. They lay there for a while until his softened cock slipped out of her.

In that moment, it all proved too much. The bitter rage rising inside at what had been cruelly taken from her, the intense emotions of Jon’s lovemaking, the intoxicating sounds he made, her own body having been on the brink of something wonderful, almost all the way, but her mind wouldn’t let her get there, the surprised satisfaction of feeling his hot seed inside her when so many times before she’d been repulsed by the act, Jon holding her in his arms and whispering how much he loved her into her ear, knowing he would leave her in the morning and possibly never return.

She continued to fight the tears threatening to overpower her, until the moment he pulled her closer, taking her into his arms, holding her against the solid warmth of his body. Waves of emotion sweeping through her, Sansa gripped him to her and began to cry. She wept for herself, she wept for Jon, she wept for the life they might not ever have.

He was confused, and worried, pulling back to look at her face. “Sansa, did I hurt you?”

“No,” she cried. “You could never hurt me, Jon.”

“What can I do?” he asked, feeling helpless.

Sansa wrapped her leg around his hip, one arm around his neck and the other around his back, gripping him even tighter. “Just hold me,” she cried into his shoulder.

And Jon held her tight, their arms and legs entangled, as she wept. After a few minutes, her cries lessened, and he leaned back to gaze into her face. She was still giving off shuddering sobs, trying to catch her breath. He brought his hand to her face, gently stroking her cheek, wiping her tears.

Sansa wanted to say the words, wanted to tell him that she loved him. But she couldn't. The fear was still there. The walls were still there, and she was putting them up, always in a state of self-preservation. She had no idea if she’d ever see him again after tonight. And if she allowed herself to open to him completely, to dwell on all that she truly felt for him, she knew wouldn’t be able to bear the pain of his loss.

Despite her tears, and the unknown that lay ahead of them, Jon felt possibly more content than he’d ever been in his life. Leaving her in the morning would be the hardest thing he would ever have to do. He had no way of knowing if he’d ever come back from the war, if he’d gain the victory over their enemies. He could only hope and pray that he would. He had to survive this war for her, to live for her.

Jon had never been one to give up on anything or anyone. But after his murder, he’d wanted to give up, to stop fighting. He was tired of it, of what it did to him, of what it made him do. He’d fought for what was right, and they’d killed him for it. His own brothers. He was ready to give up. But then suddenly there she was, urging him to keep fighting, to not give up. Ever since she walked back into his life at Castle Black, Sansa had become his driving force for survival.

During the battle for Winterfell, he’d once again been ready to give up. With the cavalry galloping towards him, where he stood completely alone and isolated on the field, he’d accepted that his death was imminent. He would go down fighting, but he was going to die nonetheless. Yet he didn’t. When the Bolton forces entrapped them, when the crush was bearing down on him, he’d thought about giving up. He could have just stayed there and let it all end, let the sweet relief of death take him. But all he could hear inside his head was Sansa’s voice, telling him to get up and fight, reminding him that if he died, then she would too. He’d finally admitted to himself that he wanted to live, and to live for her. With every fiber of his being, he’d then fought his way up out of the suffocating crush, gasping for air.

As he watched Sansa start to succumb to sleep, Jon smiled and pushed her hair back, tucking the red strands behind her ear, and cupped her face. Her skin felt so warm where his hand met her cheek. His touch was so light, so gentle. He leaned forward and kissed her softly on her forehead. “My wife,” he consoled, his gaze full of adoration.

She gazed at him with lidded eyes, nearly half-asleep, her heart swelling at the tender affection in his voice. His arms still holding her close, Sansa tucked herself against him, imbued with his steady warmth and solid security. Finally closing her eyes, she drifted off, Jon following behind her into unconsciousness, the bedchamber an island of peace in the sea of chaos the castle was becoming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the outbreak of war, betrayals and broken promises leave the fate of the North hanging in the balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote #1: Hopefully that's the background plot taken care of so we can get to what's really important - the smut. 
> 
> Sidenote #2: Huge shout-out to [visenyastargaryen](http://visenyastargaryen.tumblr.com) ([TheEagleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl) on AO3) and [jonbonsnowvi](http://jonbonsnowvi.tumblr.com) for being great sounding boards when I was stuck.

Jon had peacefully fallen asleep with his new wife tucked up against him. And yet he slept fitfully, tossing for hours until slipping into a nightmare. Sansa was in it, weeping, pleading with him to give her a child, and then she was suddenly holding a babe, his son, but the Night King descended and ripped the wailing infant from her arms.

“Your Grace?”

He woke at the sound, and saw a man looming over him in the darkness of the bedchamber. The candles had blown out, the fire in the hearth had dwindled to ash. He couldn’t clearly make out the man’s identity, taking in the slender figure and dark hair that hung in curls to his shoulders. His heart constricted. _Satin?_

“It is time. The hour of the nightingale. You gave orders to be woken.”

Jon sighed, recognizing the voice. It was only Bill Liddle, one of his guards. Sitting up in bed, he looked around in the darkness. “It can’t be the hour of the nightingale. It’s still too dark.”

The guard shook his head. “Indeed, it is, Your Grace. We counted the hours.”

He looked about the dark room in confusion. Surely, the moon must be setting, dawn should be breaking. But all was still dark. Jon’s face then fell, realization sinking into his gut like a stone weight. “Bring something hot to my quarters down the hall,” he commanded, gently throwing off his blankets so as not to wake Sansa beside him.

By the time Bill Liddle joined him in his room, Jon was lacing up his black leather boots. The guard pressed a steaming cup of beef-and-barley soup into his hands. He drank it down, his strength reviving as his stomach filled with its hearty warmth. He set the empty cup on the bedside table. Taking hold of the fur-lined wool cloak Sansa had made for him, he left his bedchamber. Once out in the hall, he found Ghost waiting for him.

For a long moment, he stood outside her door. If he were to walk back inside and wake her, speak to her, touch her, kiss her, leaving would become harder than it already was. And he was afraid – afraid to find out how she truly felt about what had transpired last night, afraid to look into her face and find disappointment and rejection there. Jon then walked away. He descended the grey stone steps slowly, trying not to think that this might be the last time, Ghost padding quietly beside him.

In the lord’s chambers, Sansa stirred. The cold grey light of morning had failed to dawn through the high narrow windows, yet something had woken her from a sound sleep. Her eyes fluttered open. For a brief, blissful moment, her mind was completely blank, but then a flood of memories rushed in. Her center ached from the intensity of Jon’s lovemaking the night before, but she smiled to herself. To her surprise, it was a good ache. She’d fallen asleep with his warm seed inside her. She prayed it would quicken there.

Turning to roll over, she realized the bed was empty. He was gone. “No,” she breathed, sitting up and gazing about the darkened room. She had to see him before he left Winterfell. He couldn’t leave her without one word of goodbye. She leapt out of bed. Hastily pulling a simple dress of heavy blue-grey wool over her head and the black hooded cloak around her shoulders, she rushed from the room. Bill Liddle was on her door that morning. “Is he in his chamber?” she asked the guard, nodding toward the quarters at the other end of the torch-lit hallway.

“No, my queen.”

Brows knitting, Sansa looked at him in confusion. _Queen?_ She married the King in the North, she reminded herself. Nodding at the guard, she then turned toward the grey stone stairway, alerted by the sounds drifting up the steps. She hurriedly made her way down three flights of the tower stairs, quickly moving through the Great Keep, heading for the courtyard as the sounds grew louder. As she made her way through the keep, servants were running to and fro, but there was no sign of her siblings.

Outside, the sky was still dark, heavily falling snow swirling through the castle gates. The air was much colder than it had been the night before, her breath misting the air. The crowded yard, still glowing with lamplight, was all noise and chaos. Wagons and riders were pouring in and out of the gates. Horses were being led from the stables, nervous and rearing. Men were shouting. Dogs were barking. The armory doors were open, and she spotted Arya’s friend, Gendry, at the forge. There was something fierce and urgent about the way he was hammering. From the sound outside the castle, the Dothraki and Unsullied forces were getting into formation somewhere beyond the northern wall.

 _Where is Jon,_ Sansa thought, panic rising as she frantically gazed about the castle yard.

And then she saw him. He was across the courtyard, near the Guards Hall, his fur-lined cloak about his shoulders and Longclaw strapped to his waist. His black courser had been saddled and bridled. Arya was there with him, donned in her heavy fur cloak and Needle at her hip, holding onto the reins of her grey gelding. They appeared to be having a heated conversation. She hurried towards them through the blustering snow.

“I said no,” Jon said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Arya clenched her jaw. “I won’t be left behind!”

Heaving a sigh, he turned to see Sansa coming towards them, his eyes widening. Words caught in his throat. He didn’t know whether to feel relief that he was able to see her once more or regret that he’d have to look upon her face as he left.

“What’s going on?” she asked when reaching their side.

“Tell him to take me with him!” Arya demanded, her brows knitting in distress.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Jon cut in before she could.

“It’s too dangerous. You’re to stay here with Sansa and look out for her.”

Her little sister huffed. “But Bran is here! He’ll keep her safe. I don’t know how to explain it, but he has a great power, almost like magic. He can protect Winterfell.”

Jon shook his head. “War is no place for a young girl!”

“I have Valyrian steel, same as you!”

“All the more reason for you to remain in Winterfell!”

“Brienne has a Valyrian steel sword, and so does Jaime Lannister. They can protect Sansa, and they will. They’re staying. _I’m_ going!”

His face hardened. “You’re not. _That_ is my decision, and my decision is _final.”_

Glancing between them, Sansa was at a loss. She knew why Jon wanted to keep Arya away from the war, but she also understood why her sister would want to ride into battle at his side.

Arya’s eyes welled up with tears as she watched him grip the reins of his black mare and lift them to the saddle. “When the snows fall, and the white winds blow,” she cried. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. The words of Ned Stark. He hadn’t heard them since he was a boy. He turned to stare at her. “Arya, I won’t be alone. I’ll have thousands of soldiers with me.”

“They won’t watch your back like I will,” she insisted. “They may fight for the North, but they’re not like us. The same blood flows through our hearts. In winter, wolves stick together, protect one another. Sansa will have Bran, and you’ll have me. None of us will be alone. That’s the only way we can survive.” Her chin trembled as he shook his head, unconvinced. “Jon, please!” she begged.

“Arya, I can’t…”

“Jon, let her go,” Sansa murmured.

His eyes met hers, softening under her gaze. He didn’t think it was a good idea. He wanted to keep his family safe, not bring them to the door of death. Arya’s eyes widened, her expression one of both surprise and gratitude.

Sansa watched the debate warring inside Jon’s head. “If you leave her behind, she’ll only sneak out of here and follow you. Might as well have her by your side so you can keep a watchful eye on her.” She gave her sister a half smile. “And besides, she’s right. The _pack_ survives.”

He sighed in defeat, nodding. With a determined look and a smile at Sansa, Arya gripped the reins of her horse and lifted herself up into the saddle laden with provisions.

Jon then met Sansa’s gaze, and their eyes held. He’d be leaving her soon. The thought left him with a familiar empty, lonely feeling, the void threatening to swallow him whole once again. She again felt at a loss, not knowing what to say to him. There was so much she wanted to say but didn’t know how. She wanted to apologize for the night before yet wasn’t sure what exactly she’d be apologizing for. She wanted to tell him how much he meant to her but couldn’t put her feelings into words. She simply stared at him, the awkward silence growing.

Glancing between them, Arya pursed her lips. “Goodbye, Sansa. ‘Till we meet again. And don’t worry, I’ll look after him.” She turned to Jon. “I’ll be waiting for you at the North Gate.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he whispered to her after their sister had ridden away.

She nodded. “Then don’t.”

Her sad smile almost devastated him. Jon had to swallow his grief and fear to get his voice to work. He then stepped forward and wrapped Sansa in a hug, before kissing her brow and resting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. They stood like that for a long, quiet moment. His hands moved to hold her waist, locking there. Despite the cold darkness around them, her heart began to pound as she felt the newfound sensation of warmth spreading through her. His hands, large and firm yet gentle, said _I don’t want to let you go_ in a way his words could not.

“I _will_ come home to you,” he comforted, hoping he sounded confident, hoping she would feel reassured. “I promise.”

Sansa hesitated, knowing that was a promise he was likely powerless to keep. She then whispered her reply. “I know you will.”

He kissed her forehead again and removed his hands from her waist, letting her go, and turned to take hold of his courser’s reins. He stilled his hands. Something deep inside his chest clutched at him and ached, something he could no longer ignore. He spun around, brows furrowing. As Jon and Sansa gazed at each other, eyes glassy with unshed tears, they were both hit with the full effect of the precarious situation they were in, the threat of war, of separation, of death. Her face crumpled, and she quickly covered the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him near. They could no longer fight their emotions, the heavy burden weighing down their hearts, and he felt her warm tears fall on his neck.

Jon pulled back, bringing his hands up to gently hold her face. He captured her lips with his, kissing her ardently as tears rolled down her cheeks. Their hearts pounded as they held each other, wrapping in a passionate embrace that neither of them wanted to end. Their love and commitment were now set in stone, their marriage by its consummated nature sacred and unbreakable. Only death could ever part them. Standing there, knowing that every kiss was now leading to the inevitable goodbye, Jon tried to savor the passion he felt for her, not knowing if he would be able to see her again.

He finally broke the kiss and gazed into her eyes, breathing heavily. Sansa brought her palms up to his face, sliding her thumbs down to caress his lips, while his strong hands gripped her waist. The words welled up inside her, and she wanted so badly to say them. But something still held her back. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, her hands on Jon’s chest, playing with the fur of his heavy cloak. Pain filled him when he finally pulled away, but he had no choice, and turned abruptly.

And then he saw her. Daenerys Targaryen was standing in the courtyard not ten yards away, staring at them, the blustery snow swirling all around her. An entire gamut of emotions flickered across her face – shock and confusion, sadness and disbelief. He could see her heart was breaking right in front of him. A bitter pain was reflected in her eyes, but then they hardened, and her mouth pushed into a thin line. He knew that face – a mask to hide behind when she felt threatened or uncertain or vulnerable. And he knew she had to be feeling all three in that moment.

Jon’s stomach clenched. How could he have been so foolish? To embrace Sansa, kiss her, out in the open. He hadn’t been thinking. Maester Wolkan then appeared before them, out of breath. “My lord, we’ve received a raven intended for Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Give it here, then,” she commanded, stepping forward. Jorah Mormont, Tyrion Lannister, and Lord Varys suddenly arrived, joining her side.

Wolkan glanced at Jon nervously. He’d instructed the maester to intercept all communication to the dragon queen. He nodded. Maester Wolkan handed her the small scroll and she snatched it out of his hand. She quickly read it, and then turned a wide-eyed, furious gaze on her advisers. “Cersei has taken back Casterly Rock, and a fleet of ships has surrounded Dragonstone. They are mounted with catapults and flinging barrels of wildfire at the castle.”

Jon sighed, shutting his eyes.

“I’m taking my dragons and I am going to burn her out of the Red Keep!” Daenerys roared.

Tyrion and Varys reacted with shocked expressions. “The northern threat is upon us, Your Grace, and it must be dealt with first,” the eunuch implored.

The dragon queen turned an icy gaze on Jon. Their eyes met and held. “I’m taking my dragons to King’s Landing,” she glowered. “Once Cersei has been defeated, I’ll handle any other _threats_ to my rule.”

Jon stared, her eyes not leaving his.

“The North could perish by then,” Ser Jorah pleaded. “If the North falls, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms won’t be far behind. This Night King’s army of the dead could grow to a size impossible to defeat. There won’t be a realm left for you to rule over. My queen, you promised to _save_ the North.”

Daenerys kept her eyes locked on Jon’s. “If Cersei doesn’t _uphold her oaths_ , then why should I? If Cersei makes _false promises,_ why should _my word_ mean anything?”

Stomach clenching once again, his own words being spat back in his face, Jon’s mind raced. He could see the paranoia rising inside her, and rightfully so, he admitted to himself. But how could they defeat the Night King without her dragons? If she were to fly south and abandon them?

“Cersei is a fickle cunt!” Tyrion snapped. “You’re _better_ than her. But you certainly won’t prove that to the people you want to rule over by raining dragonfire upon King’s Landing.”

Sansa stood behind them, clutching her wool cloak around her as the air grew colder, the winds blew harder, the snow fell heavier from the sky. Unsure whether to speak, whether to challenge Daenerys, remind her of her pledge to help them, or reveal to her the truth about her claim to the Iron Throne, she simply watched and listened. She then caught the eye of the dragon queen. The Targaryen woman scowled in suspicion for a moment, but then turned her displeasure in Jon’s direction once more.

Daenerys stared down at the scroll in her hand, and then crumpled it in her fist. “I won’t let the Iron Throne slip through my fingers.” 

“Your Grace, no,” Tyrion implored. “Castles can be rebuilt. Cersei is not the bigger threat. She…”

Daenerys stepped quickly towards her Hand, forcing him to retreat. “Your _strategies_ and advice have done nothing but send me in the wrong direction! And now you’re advising me _not_ to attack my enemies? _Not_ to attack your sister? What kind of Targaryen am I if I allow Dragonstone to be razed to the ground?! I am _done_ listening to you.”

Glancing between them, Jon pleaded for his cause. “If you take your dragons to King’s Landing now, then the North has no chance for survival. And then the realm will surely fall. Death is the real enemy, and it is upon us.”

“I can’t win the throne if I’m dead,” she spat at him. “Or if more of my dragons fall. That is exactly what Cersei is hoping for, that the northern threat wipes me out while she is safely inside the Red Keep, sitting on _my_ throne! I have to act now, or how can I call myself Queen?!”

“Your Grace, please listen to reason,” Jorah Mormont begged.

She sneered at them. “I am the _last dragon,_ and I will not allow Cersei to rule Westeros for one more day. Once I have my throne, and have complete control over the Seven Kingdoms, this northern threat won’t be able to _touch_ me.”

Jon seethed. “Daenerys, don’t be a fool!” Her eyes widened at the rebuke, her expression filled with rage and contempt. He could see she was still trying to mask just how hurt she was at his deception. “Millions of lives lie between Winterfell and King’s Landing. You’ll give them all into the hand of the Night King so as long as you can sit on a throne?”

“I will deal with my enemies as I see fit, in the south or in the North,” the dragon queen threatened. “I’m going to rid the realm of Cersei Lannister, once and for all. Then I’m going to return to the North and deal with the _enemies_ that remain here.” Her eyes blazed at him, pain and anger reflected in her gaze. She then threw another scowl in Sansa’s direction, before storming off toward the great main gates, Jorah Mormont running after her.

“The Night King has her dragon,” Jon blurted. “The one that fell.”

Tyrion and Varys, mouths falling open, turned their shocked gazes on him.

“A living carcass, breathing blue flame,” he continued. “My brother, he’s… He’s a greenseer, and a warg. He saw the dragon.”

They too turned and hurriedly tried to follow in the direction Daenerys and Ser Jorah had ran off. Gripping the reins of his ink-black courser, he lifted himself into the saddle and turned towards the open gate. A terrible screeching filled the air, and he threw his gaze to the dark, stormy sky. Judging by the size of the beast, Drogon had taken to flight over the castle. The large dragon was unmistakably heading in a southern direction.

Shutting his eyes, Jon shook his head, regret flooding his insides, twisting his guts. Gazing about the busy courtyard, wagons with provisions pouring from the gates to join up with the soldiers outside, he waited for the sight or sound of her second remaining dragon, the green one. Several moments passed, and nothing. Rhaegal hadn’t taken to the sky and gone after them.

Jorah Mormont suddenly reappeared in the castle yard, clutching his heavy woolen cloak, his face furrowing against the cold, blowing wind. “I couldn’t convince her to stay,” the former heir of House Mormont related. “But I at least convinced her not to take both dragons. If she takes both, she risks both at the same time. She can’t afford to lose them all. Rhaegal is to remain here at Winterfell and wait for her return.”

The wind had markedly picked up, growing colder as heavier snow fell from the sky. Jon told him to get back inside the castle. Ser Jorah only shook his head. “I’m going with you. I can’t serve or aid my queen from Winterfell. I may not have been able to go south with her and fight her enemies there, but I can fight her enemies in the North.”

Their eyes meeting, a hint of suspicion spread across Sansa’s face as Jorah Mormont turned and walked off toward the stables. Shifting in the saddle and taking hold of the reins, Jon began slowly walking his mare toward the North Gate. His wife followed. They soon reached the gate, where Arya was found waiting. A moment later, Ser Jorah Mormont rode by atop his steed, through the gate and across the drawbridge over the frozen moat.

Sansa stared after him, brows knitting, fear clutching her insides.

“Try not to worry yourself sick,” Arya soothed. “I’ll look out for our king, watch his back. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

She nodded, her gaze shifting back to the open gate. She approached her sister’s horse. “Look out for Jorah Mormont as well,” she cautioned, her gaze direct and unflinching. “Watch out for him with Jon.”

Arya turned her head to stare at the gate, her hand moving to clutch Needle’s hilt. “I will.”

Riding up beside them atop his own horse, breaking up the intimacy of the sisters’ conversation, Gendry joined them, his war hammer strapped to his back. “Ready when you are, my lady,” he said. Arya gave him a pointed look, frowning at him. He grinned at her. Glancing at Sansa one last time, she smiled, silently mouthed _thank you,_ and then rode through the North Gate, Gendry following behind her.

Looking about the castle yard, Jon caught sight of Samwell Tarly rushing towards him. “Goodbye, Jon,” he shouted from several feet away. “I’ll do everything I can to look after your family.”

He smiled. “Goodbye, Sam.” Jon gazed at Sansa for a moment, and then turned back to his friend. “Sam… Above all else, Sansa must live. She must survive. Do you understand me?”

Swallowing, Sam nodded, his expression turning fearful. “Yes, Jon.”

A crowd had gathered, Winterfell’s household coming to see him off. He nodded in Sansa’s direction. “Look! Your queen,” he declared to them, once again handing off sovereignty over the North into her hands.

He then turned and rode through the gate. “Ghost,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Ghost, to me!” The white direwolf ran after him.

Sansa hastily moved forward, coming to stand just inside the arched gate. Once he reached halfway over the drawbridge, he turned his horse around to face her. “I love you,” Jon called out across the frozen moat.

And still, she hesitated, hot tears pricking her eyes. She licked her lips. “Jon, I…,” she called back to him.

He shook his head, something twisting in his guts as gazed at her beautiful face, her cheeks pink from the bitter cold, her auburn hair dancing in the wind. His horse moved closer towards her. “Think carefully about what you want to say to me. When I return, if you still want to say it, say it then.”

She nodded silently and watched him turn his horse to ride to the other side of the castle’s walls to join up with his armies. Tears welled up in her eyes as he quickly disappeared from her view.

“Don’t worry, Lady Sansa,” Sam consoled. “Jon will come back. He always does.”

Unable to reply, she remained gazing silently at the open gate.

Astride his courser with a coat and mane as black and shiny as maester’s ink, Jon rode past the long lines of Unsullied and Dothraki formations, torches and lanterns lighting the way. The world was unnaturally dark. The sun had gone, there were no moon or stars in the sky, no blue winter glow emanating from the surface of the snow-covered ground. It was a while before he reached the front, finding Grey Worm along with Arya, Gendry, Davos Seaworth, Jorah Mormont, and Sandor Clegane. His gaze then caught Beric Dondarrion and Tormund Gianstbane with them.

Jon gaped at them. He’d left them at Eastwatch. “When did you...?”

“Not five hours ago,” Lord Beric answered. “I thought we’d never make it.”

“That fucker blasted through the Wall,” exclaimed Tormund. “Riding on the back of an ice dragon.”

He sighed. How were they to defeat the Night King with Daenerys gone?

“Jon Snow.”

His gaze shifted from Tormund to Grey Worm.

The leader of the Unsullied stepped closer. “Where is Queen Daenerys? We saw her take the dragon.”

“She has gone to defend Dragonstone from our southern enemies and has left the Night King and his army to us,” he recounted. He gazed about at the thousands of soldiers gathered in the darkness, northmen, the Unsullied in battle formation, the Dothraki horde atop their battle-tested horses, and then gave Grey Worm a determined look. “I have command now.”

Nodding silently, Grey Worm stepped back to take his place at the head of the Unsullied formation. Jon turned and saw a distant flashing light, a flickering flame. Something about it was strange and different from the torches and lanterns among the soldiers. He jumped down from his horse, handing his reins to Davos, and walked off. The air grew warmer with every step he took. In the snowy white that covered the ground, two bronze eyes then rose up, brighter than polished shields, glimmering from their own heat, shining behind a shroud of smoke rising from the dragon’s nostrils.

His eyes ran over its scales of dark green, like the color of moss in the forest at sunset. The dragon opened its mouth, a wave of heat and light washing over him, emanating from somewhere at the back of its throat. Behind a row of black teeth, like a fence of sharp knives, he glimpsed the glow of a furnace, a sleeping inferno that he knew would burn brighter and hotter than any man-made fire. The dragon’s head was large, and its neck uncoiled like some great green snake as it rose from the ground where it had been resting, until its bronze eyes were looking down at him.

Jon found that he wasn’t afraid. Something inside told him Rhaegal would not attack him. An overwhelming feeling came over him, a strong desire to reach out and stroke the dragon. Rhaegal crept closer, bringing its head nearer, its bronze eyes still locked on him. And then his hand went forward through the air, and he stroked Rhaegal under one eye, brushing his fingertips across the dragon’s scales all the way down his large jaw. He then removed his hand, stepping back. The green dragon gazed down at him.

 _Daenerys is not the last dragon,_ he told himself. Jon turned and walked back to his horse. His foot entered the stirrup of his saddle and he swung himself onto the back of his mare. “Does anyone know the High Valyrian word for _fly?”_ he asked his front line.

They all blinked at him.

“Sōvēs,” Grey Worm and Arya stated in unison.

Jon stared at them, and then nodded, pursing his lips. Gripping the reins, he rode back and forth along the front. “We march!” The soldiers began moving forward. He turned to where the green dragon lay in the melting snow, trotting closer towards it. “Sōvēs!” he shouted.

Rhaegal rose up, stretching its jade wings into the air, and he flew into the snowy sky. Wings soared through the air, scales of green and bronze shimmering above them as the van marched north. Jon eventually reached the crest of the hill that lay beyond Winterfell. The blustering snow swirled about him and through the darkness he could barely see the armies he had usurped command of. Their helms and hoods were drawn. Their faces were blanketed by darkness and the heavy snowfall.

He felt as if he stood upon a great cliff where one false step and he would fall off into the crushing reality of his failure. If he should fail in defeating the Night King, the inevitable avalanche that this would cause would no doubt consume what was left of the Seven Kingdoms. He needed to take comfort in a friendly face, but Arya, Davos, Tormund, and Gendry were covered up by their hoods. He felt alone in the storm, in the unnatural darkness of the morning.

 _Gods of the wood,_ Jon prayed silently. _Grant me strength. Give me the wisdom and courage to do what must be done. Spare Sansa’s life. And Arya and Bran. Spare Winterfell. Give my enemies into my hand. Give me one clean shot at the Night King. Give me Daenerys._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Jon away at war, Sansa finally appoints a steward to help her care for Winterfell.

Sansa stood in the yard and watched the castle become closed off by iron gates, chained and locked. An eerie silence had filled the air once the sounds of the marching armies faded and disappeared. A garrison of five hundred northmen belonging to the household guard had remained behind along with the knights of the Vale to defend the castle. She glanced up at the walls, blustering snow swirling around the men stationed on the battlements. Winterfell was cloaked in unnatural darkness, more lanterns and torches alighting around the yard and inside the castle buildings.

“Your Grace,” spoke a tentative voice.

She turned to see Maester Wolkan standing there in his grey robes and link chain around his neck. “Yes?”

“You really should get back inside and out of this cold wind,” he advised.

She clutched the black woolen cloak around her shoulders and turned from the North Gate, heading back towards the main keep. As she neared the large building, she caught sight of Samwell Tarly walking through the yard underneath the covered bridge that connected the armory to the Great Keep. He kept moving past the Guest House. She assumed he was heading for the Library Tower, but he passed that as well. And then she remembered – the man of the Night’s Watch taking up residence in a sickroom in the Bell Tower. She hurried towards it.

Once inside the tower, sheltered from the cold darkness, Sansa lowered the hood of her cloak and began to ascend the grey stone stairs, wall sconces holding torches that lit the way. The sickrooms were kept on the third or fourth floors, near the bridge that connected to the second floor of the rookery for the maester’s easy access. After climbing four flights of steps, she walked past the opening to the covered bridge and came to a bedchamber with its door ajar on the left side of the stone hallway.

Knocking on the door, Sansa stepped inside the room. A strong odor hit her sharply, and she scrunched up her face. A man lay atop a small featherbed, covered in wool blankets. Sam was sitting in an oak chair at the bedside. Candles were lit all around the room, but there was no fire burning in the hearth.

“I’m cold,” the man said to Sam, clutching the blankets around him. His cheeks were bright red, and his black hair was damp against the pillow.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said to him. “The castle was in such disarray this morning, that I’m afraid some things may have been neglected.”

The man gave her a surprised look of recognition. “I’m no lord, Lady Stark.”

She gave him a soft smile. “Do I know you?”

“I was at Castle Black when you first arrived, m’lady, with Brienne of Tarth and her squire, Podrick,” he related.

Sam pursed his lips. “This is Satin, Lady Sansa,” he told her. “I mean, Your Grace. He was Jon’s steward and squire when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Lips parting, she gazed down at the man lying in the bed. He must’ve known Jon very well.

Satin’s brows furrowed. _“‘Your Grace’_ …?”

“Jon was named King in the North,” he explained.

“I know that, Sam,” he said impatiently.

Nodding, the large man fought a grin. “Jon and Sansa were married last night here in Winterfell. She’s now his queen.”

Satin stared in shock, his mouth falling open, his eyes widening. But then his expression quickly changed to one of resigned acceptance. “I’d had a feeling he was a sisterfucker at heart. I never forgot the way he would gaze at you before you left Castle Black. But I thought that sort of thing was generally frowned upon in Westeros.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “Forgive him, Your Grace. He’s not himself. He doesn’t normally say such rude things.”

“I’m not his sister,” she rebuked defensively, her stomach tightening. “His mother was my lord father’s sister, Lyanna Stark. We’re cousins.”

Satin looked at his black brother in confusion and disbelief. “I’ll explain it to you later,” Sam promised.

Sansa glanced to the sideboard against the stone wall, and moved towards it, lifting a small bell and ringing it. Several moments later, a servant entered the room. “A fire needs to be lit in the hearth and bring something hot for our guest to eat, please.”

The servant bowed and left the sickroom. Satin gazed at where Sansa moved about the room, coming to stand in front of the window overlooking the frozen moat beyond the western wall. “Has Jon Snow gone? Has he left to fight?”

“Yes,” she sighed, staring out into the darkness.

“He’s the best swordsman I ever saw,” Satin recalled, leaning back against the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. “Not that I saw too many in action _before_ I went to the Wall. I should’ve made it to Winterfell sooner. I might’ve recovered in time. I should be out there with him, fighting by his side, just as I was when the wildlings attacked Castle Black.”

Sansa turned from the window and gazed at him. Jon had told her of his years spent with the Night’s Watch, but she suspected he’d only told her bits and pieces of his time there. She wanted to know more – she wanted to know everything. Two servants then entered the room, one carrying an armful of firewood and the other a bowl of steaming soup.

“I’ll take that,” she commanded, retrieving the bowl and spoon from the servant’s hands. “Sam, would you mind leaving us? I’d like to tend to our visitor.”

Nodding quietly, Samwell Tarly stood from the chair and walked towards the doorway. He then turned back to glance at his brother. “I’ll come back later.”

She watched him leave the sickroom. Moments later, a fire blazed inside the hearth and the servants departed the chamber as well. She took the oak chair beside the bed and considered the man who lay there. “Sit up,” she instructed. “I won’t have you choking on me.”

Satin did as commanded, grimacing as he shifted on the bed into a sitting position. His black hair hung in damp, sweaty curls to his shoulders. His face was smudged with dirt. His dark beard was shaggy and unkempt. “Something sure smells ripe,” he mumbled. “Oh, it’s me.” He gazed at her earnestly. “My apologies, m’lady. I don’t normally… This is not how I… I mean, it’s not respectful, and…”

Sansa sighed. The man looked faint just from the effort it took to sit up. “It’s quite all right. The rooms in the Bell Tower aren’t large enough to hold a private bath, but I’ll see to it that you’re properly washed.” She then shifted the chair closer to the bedside, and with bowl in hand, she dipped the spoon into the beef-and-barley soup. Scraping the bottom of the bowl with the spoon, she lifted it to his mouth.

Satin hesitated, licking his lips. “Am I going to be executed as a deserter?” he whispered, his brows furrowing.

“No.” Pausing, she gazed into his pretty, dark eyes. “The Night’s Watch, the rest of your brothers, are they…? Did they…?” Her questions trailed off.

His eyes welled up with sudden tears. “After the blast shook the Wall, Dolorous Edd threw me on a horse and commanded I ride to Winterfell to tell Jon Snow. They would hold Castle Black for as a long as they could and then try to follow me. I was on the kingsroad for weeks, but no one ever followed.”

She frowned in sympathy. “I’m sorry about your brothers,” she murmured. Sansa again lifted the spoon to his face. Satin parted his lips and she eased the spoon inside. The hot soup was comforting, filling him with warmth as tears brimmed over and rolled down his cheeks.

*****

Inside the main keep’s council chambers, Sansa stood over Jon’s table, a great map of the North spreading out before her, internally groaning at the list of complaints she was listening to. Five days since Jon had departed Winterfell, and the world was still unnaturally dark, candles and lanterns and fires burning at all hours. It was nearly impossible to tell night from day. The world seemed upside down.

“And another thing, Your Grace,” Wolkan continued. “The kennelmaster and master-of-horse are still at odds with the cooks. The kennelmaster demands proper meals for the dogs. The master-of-horse demands enough feed for the horses. The cooks say meat and produce from the gardens should be preserved for human lives. They’re at each other’s throats and expect me to come up with a solution. I have half a mind to do away with the dogs and the remaining horses in the stables entirely, just to spare the bickering. My queen, I am not a steward. These kinds of trivial household matters are taking up more of my time, time away from my intended duties as a _maester.”_

“Duly noted, Maester Wolkan,” she placated. “If you see my brother, please give him a message. I haven’t seen him at all today and I’d like him to sup with me.”

“Lord Brandon is in the godswood,” he related. “Where _I_ should be. The Archmaesters of the Citadel are very curious to hear more about these visions of his, and they expect detailed reports.”

With a patient sigh, she nodded toward the open doorway. The maester bowed and left the room. Once again staring at the map on the table, wondering where Jon could possibly be, praying he was still alive, the sound of returning footsteps suddenly filled the hall outside the council chambers. Groaning internally, she expected Wolkan to reappear.

Sansa looked up to see a man of middling height and slender build enter the room, dressed in freshly-washed black wool and leather. He couldn’t be older than four-and-twenty. At first, she didn’t recognize him, but then realization quickly dawned. Gone was the unkempt dark beard. He was clean-shaven, with a strong jawline and soft skin covering prominent cheekbones. His lips were soft and gently curved, full, yet masculine. He was prettier than a girl, with his dark eyes and eyelashes as long as any woman’s, and his thick, black raven’s curls that appeared soft as silk. She had never seen anyone so beautiful.

“Lady Sansa,” he greeted, holding his hands behind his back in a regal stance. Pausing, he seemed to reconsider his word choice. “Your Grace, I mean.”

She scoffed, but then smiled at his sweet voice. “Hello, Satin. And _lady_ is fine. I haven’t gotten used to being addressed as a queen, to be honest.” Her gaze ran over him. “You’re looking better.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you, m’lady. I’m feeling much improved. It’s amazing what food and sleep can do for a man.” He glanced down at his woolens and leathers. “Um… if you could point me in the direction of the maidservant who mended my clothes? I wish to thank her. They’re better than new.”

Sansa felt an embarrassed blush creeping into her cheeks but wasn’t sure why. “You just did.”

“Oh, yes…,” Satin recalled, keeping his gaze steady on her face. “You were often sewing at Castle Black. Jon sent me to Mole’s Town once to get better materials for you than what the Night’s Watch had. It was soft blue lambswool, and several colors of thread. I believe you made a dress of the fabric.”

She smiled to herself, warming at the memory. She licked her lips and went back to focusing on the map. “I remember that dress. Jon liked it.”

He smirked. “I’m sure he did.”

“You were his steward?” she inquired, looking up from the table. She felt confused as to why she had no memory of him from her time there. She surely would’ve remembered someone who looked like him.

He nodded, giving her a half smile. “Yes, m’lady. And his squire. It was a great honor. Especially since many of our brothers were against it and tried to get him to change his mind.”

Brows knitting, she earnestly gazed into his large dark eyes like liquid jet. “But why?”

“Because of what I was before I joined the Night’s Watch,” he related. “Most men of the Watch weren’t like Jon Snow. They joined because they had to if they wanted to evade an even harsher punishment for their crimes.”

When she was a young girl, she never would’ve believed someone so beautiful could be a vile criminal. She knew better now. She may have been a slow learner, but she learned. “But when you join the Night’s Watch, all your sins are forgiven.”

Satin pursed his lips, his steady gaze faltering for the first time. “Depends on the sins.”

Their eyes held for a long moment. Sansa desperately wanted to ask him what he had done in his former life but thought better of it. Whatever he’d done, it hadn’t deterred Jon from appointing him as his personal steward, and that was good enough for her. “Would you like me to show you around the castle?” she asked, changing the subject.

He smiled, his dark eyes sparkling. “I’d like that, m’lady.”

She returned his smile.

After she and Jon had reclaimed Winterfell, Sansa had enjoyed the fruits of her vengeance. Every time she saw one of the dead Bolton men as they lay about the courtyard, she’d look at his face, trying to remember if the man had shown her any hint of disdain or cruelty. Even if the men hadn’t, she thought of Ramsay, and the way he’d screamed when his dogs attacked him. She’d thought of Robb, with Roose Bolton’s knife in his heart. She’d thought of her mother. She’d thought of Rickon. The Bolton name was dead and gone, never to rise again, and her home would soon be cleansed of the disgrace that had polluted its walls.

With her new husband away, the castle was once again hers. The North was hers. She wondered for how much longer, if the Night King and his army of the dead would reach Winterfell. Satin walked beside her through the darkened yard lit with torches and lamplight as Sansa showed him the way around. She toured the castle with him like a guide, from the Guards Hall and armory to the kitchen and glass gardens, where they grew fruits and vegetables to feed the household. At each stop, she found herself thinking of her memories of the places, and all she’d done there.

“This is the godswood,” Sansa informed, not saying anything about the two wedding ceremonies she’d had there. “Three acres of old forest with an ancient weirwood tree.”

“A waste of land that could be used to feed people,” blurted Satin.

She turned a surprised gaze on him.

His lips parted, eyes going wide. “Pardon me, m’lady. I shouldn’t have said… The North is vast, with plenty of farmland, and so your godswood…”

“It’s all right,” she reassured. “Frank talk doesn’t offend me. I rather like it.” She considered him. “I take it you pray to the new gods?”

“Yes. I pray to the Seven.”

She turned from the iron main gate of the grove, heading back towards the Great Keep. “Where in the south are you from, Satin?”

Licking his lips, he hesitated as he walked beside her across the snow and mud. “Oldtown,” he murmured.

“I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city,” she gushed. “I suppose most places are in the Reach.”

“Every beautiful thing has an underbelly that will eventually show itself,” he countered. “As all manner of vice is barely hidden beneath any surface, whether it be a city or a castle, or a man or woman.”

Sansa gazed at him in wonder, again compelled to question him about his life before joining the Night’s Watch, and again keeping silent. There was so much more she wanted to know about him, was captivated and charmed even though he’d said so little, but she didn’t dare ask. Once back inside the main keep, she continued to act as guide while they walked about the floors and passageways. She soon found herself speaking of Maester Wolkan and his various complaints.

“I worry that he actually will tell the master-of-horse and kennelmaster to put down their animals, so he doesn’t have to deal with the situation,” she concluded. “I would never hear the end of it.”

“There may come a time when the people inside the castle may need horse and dog and cat and rat in order to survive,” Satin mused. “When they will be eating to live, not living to eat. Best to give your animals the smallest measure of feed that will keep them healthy and then pray there isn’t a siege.”

Impressed by his shrewd and sensible response, Sansa smiled as she walked beside him. “Yes, but I’m afraid the maester feels these household matters are trivial and beneath his position.”

He shook his head as they rounded a corner. “How can anything concerning Winterfell be trivial?”

Halting abruptly in the grey stone hallway, she stared at him. A strange warmth gathered inside her at his words, spoken in a voice as sweet as song. He turned back, and their eyes met, holding for a long moment. Her gaze then shifted to a door just behind him on the right side of the torch-lit hallway. Her stomach clenched. She hadn’t been in this section of the keep since reclaiming her home. The last time she had walked out that door, she’d vowed never to return to that room, even if it meant her death.

Sansa wordlessly moved past him to stand in front of it, Satin turning and staring at her. She grasped hold of the latch, her stomach knotting fiercely, and opened the door. The bedchamber was cloaked in darkness; there were no candles lit or a fire burning in the hearth. Reaching toward a wall sconce, Satin took down a torch and followed her inside the room. He then went about lighting candles around the chamber that had long since burned out, before tossing the torch inside the hearth, igniting the old wood that remained there.

She stared at the bed, painful memories rising inside her like bile. “The worst night of my life was spent inside this room,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “And many nights thereafter, almost as terrible as the first one.”

Satin lowered his eyes to the stone floor. “There was no love for the Boltons at Castle Black. We all knew what the Bastard of the Dreadfort was. We had all heard the awful stories. I remember when Jon Snow received word that you’d been married off to Ramsay. He was very much grieved. That was a difficult night for him. I wish I could say that I can’t imagine how terrible it must’ve been for you, that I can’t possibly understand how you must’ve felt, but…” His sentence trailed off.

The man from Oldtown just revealed a glimpse into the parts of Jon’s life at the Wall he hadn’t yet shared with her, and perhaps a glimpse into his own life. Turning from the bed, Sansa shifted her gaze to him. “What was the worst night of your life?” she tentatively ventured, giving in to the temptation to learn more about him. She watched him hesitate to answer, as if contemplating many possible _worst nights_ in his young life.

He sighed. “The night Jon Snow was murdered.”

She looked at him with sad eyes for a moment, gazing at his wondrously beautiful face, and said, in an earnest voice–

“You were there when he was killed?”

“I wasn’t a witness to the traitorous attack, but I was there when they found his body, m’lady.”

Sansa stepped closer to him in the candlelit bedchamber. “Tell me,” she insisted in earnest tones.

Licking his lips, Satin nodded. “Ghost was howling like mad from his kennel. I left the Lord Commander’s quarters and walked out to the rail overlooking the courtyard. Ser Davos must’ve also heard the wolf, since he had done the same across the yard. Then he was rushing down the wooden stairway. I rushed down as well. Edd and two more brothers appeared. We were all hurrying toward the body on the ground.”

He paused, staring out at nothing as the memories came forward. “It was my Lord Commander, the snow all around him red with his blood. There was a stake near him, with the word _traitor_ scrawled on a wooden sign. We lifted his body and carried him to his chambers, laid him on his table.” His eyes became glassy with tears, and he swallowed. “I wanted to lay there too,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to die with him.”

Sansa gazed at his face, at the emotional distress contorting his delicate features.

“But then the red priestess, the Lady Melisandre,” Satin continued, sniffling. “She laid her hands on him and spoke strange words, and then he was alive. She brought my Lord Commander back. I’d never been so astounded, or relieved.” He sighed.

 _He must have loved Jon very much,_ she thought. Sansa had noticed that about many of the men who followed him, who chose him to lead them. She remembered Cersei’s words of wisdom, her belief that the only way to keep people loyal is to make sure they fear you more than the enemy. But that wasn’t what her father had taught her, and Jon had proved his words true. He had Ned Stark’s gift for inspiring loyalty; loyalty gained not through fear, but through love.

The inspiration came to Sansa suddenly. “Where do you plan on going now that the Night’s Watch is no more?”

Satin turned to gaze at her with furrowed brows. “I hadn’t given that any thought, m’lady. My mission was to reach Winterfell and warn Jon Snow.” He shook his head. “I can’t return to Oldtown,” he concluded darkly.

“At Castle Black, you served Jon as his steward,” she ventured. “Would you like to serve him again? Serve us? Serve Winterfell? The castle is in need of a steward – someone loyal, someone who can be trusted. I believe that someone is you.”

He stared at her in shock, his lips parting. But then set his jaw. “No, m’lady. I’m flattered by your proposal, but the steward of a castle such as this should be highborn – a son of a noble house sworn to House Stark. I’m a bastard. I am not worthy of the position.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “You were the steward of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. If Jon felt you were worthy of the position, then you are also worthy enough to serve here.”

“Castle Black is not Winterfell, m’lady,” he declared. “The Night’s Watch was home to some of the vilest creatures in the Seven Kingdoms. There was a cook who was fond of raping septas. He would burn a seven-pointed star into his skin for each one. His left arm was full of stars, from wrist to elbow, and his leg as well. There was a man who set his family’s house on fire and barred the door. All nine inside burned to death. Those were the kinds of men we called brothers, the men we served with at the Wall, and still there were those at Castle Black who thought _me_ unworthy to be the Lord Commander’s steward. So, Winterfell… To appoint me as steward would only bring dishonor to House Stark. There are surely more worthy men for you to choose.”

Nodding silently, she again wanted so badly to ask him about what he’d done to warrant joining the Night’s Watch, to ask him why he couldn’t return to Oldtown. Sansa then stepped away from him and began blowing out the candles around the room, not wanting to remain any longer than necessary. They were soon back in the hall and she led him toward the tower stairs that ascended to the family bedchambers. She showed him the room where Arya slept, and what had once been Bran’s bedchamber years ago; he now slept on the first floor of the keep. The rooms that had once been her lady mother’s private quarters, that Jon had used before the wedding, were then shown.

“I’m sure there have been happier memories here than in your previous bridal chamber, m’lady,” Satin said consolingly as she opened the door to the lord’s chambers. There was a fire burning in the stone hearth, and candles lit around the room. “I do wish I was out there with your husband, fighting by his side as I did before. I haven’t felt this alone and friendless since I left Oldtown. But it gives me some comfort to know he experienced wedded happiness before he rode off to war.”

She hesitated, swallowing, her stomach twisting at the sudden memory of the consummation not five nights ago. It saddened her, and she didn’t speak a reply, averting her eyes from his.

Furrowing his brows, he gazed at her as they stepped inside the warm chamber. “Forgive me if I spoke wrong, m’lady.”

Their eyes met and held, transfixed, and she felt emboldened. She still hadn’t given up on her idea of appointing him as steward. “Why can’t you return to Oldtown? Why did you have to join the Night’s Watch?”

Satin dropped his gaze, looking at the fire crackling in the hearth. After a long, silent moment, he spoke. “Are you familiar with House Hightower?”

“They’re one of the most powerful noble houses of the Reach. Their sigil is a stone white watchtower, with a fire burning at the top.”

He nodded. “Lord Leyton Hightower, the Old Man of Oldtown, has four sons and six daughters. His fifth daughter, Alysanne, would… visit me. I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. She was a lovely girl and I was able to show her a great many things. Then she became betrothed to Lord Arthur of House Ambrose. But even after her marriage, she’d visit me whenever she came to Oldtown.” He sighed. “Her eldest brother, Baelor, heir of House Hightower, soon found her out. He showed up one day, at the place where I lived, and made threats to the owner. Alysanne was forbidden from coming to see me, and if she ever did again, then he would have my head mounted on a spike.”

Captivated, Sansa stared. “But she came again?”

“No, she didn’t,” he related. “She did her duty to her husband and her father’s House and stayed away. After some time, I became acquainted with a young man. He would often visit me and although he would never tell me his name, for a while I was content with our… companionship. But then one night, House Hightower soldiers busted into the… place where I lived and dragged me from my bed. It turned out that my _companion_ was Ser Humfrey Hightower, youngest son of the Old Man. I’d corrupted two of his children. I’d brought shame and dishonor on their House, and this couldn’t be forgiven. They gave me two choices: either face execution for my crimes or join the Night’s Watch. I have no desire to die. But if I ever return to Oldtown, I surely will. The Hightowers will see to it.”

She considered him for a moment, absorbing all that he’d recounted. “And Jon knew all this?”

Satin shook his head. “I never told him the details, but he knew enough. He knew that I was a bastard, and a former whore, born and raised in an Oldtown brothel. Once I reached a certain age, the man who owned the brothel, who owned my mother, decided I needed to start earning my keep or be thrown out on the street.”

“How old were you?” Sansa whispered.

“You don’t want to know, m’lady.”

Her eyes widened, her stomach twisting fiercely. “I’m so sorry,” she sighed.

He shrugged, pursing his lips. “I try not to think about the first few years. When I got older, things got better. It wasn’t all bad. That’s not my life anymore, but it still follows me. It followed me all the way to the Wall, where my brothers would whisper _pillow-biter_ behind my back. But never Jon Snow. From the moment I arrived at Castle Black, he was kind to me. He kept me by his side during the battle against the wildlings, protected me. Then after they were defeated, he took it upon himself to train me properly. I was good with a crossbow, but shoddy with swordsmanship. _‘Keep the shield up or I’ll ring your head like a bell.’”_ He smiled at the memory. “And then he made me his squire and steward when he was chosen as Lord Commander. He saw something in me many others did not. For what men want to follow a whore into battle? Want to take commands from a whore?”

“Men have followed worse,” Sansa replied darkly. “But that’s not your life anymore. Jon saw something in you, and I do as well. I still want you for my steward.” She paused, a fluttery feeling churning in her stomach. “Winterfell’s steward. You’re capable, and if Jon trusts you, then I can. Think of how pleased he’ll be when he returns and finds you here helping me care for our household. Will you accept?”

Satin stared at her, lips parting. She met his gaze with her own pleading one. Finally, he nodded. “Aye, I will.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya battle in the darkness. While Satin begins to carry out his duties in Winterfell, he and Sansa ponder Jon's eventual return.

Blue flame met red in the sky as black as pitch, a brilliant explosion bathing the thousands of soldiers on the ground in intermittent light. The air all around was a cold so fierce it felt like fire in their lungs. To their left lay the tree line of the wolfswood and the shoreline of Long Lake, to their right an expanse of snow-covered land that lay north of the Dreadfort. The sounds of Dothraki screamers atop their galloping horses filled the air, along with the clash of steel. The Unsullied battled all around, equipped with tall hardwood spears with dragonglass heads.

Armed with Longclaw, Jon fought his way through surging dead men toward their White Walker commanders. From the sound of her grunts and shouts, Arya was just behind him. He also heard his direwolf, snarling and growling, heard the snap of his long teeth, the tearing of rotten flesh, piercing shrieks from the dead men. Ghost was somewhere near him in the darkness, ripping the wights limb from limb. The plan was to go for the Walkers, slay them as quickly as possible, seemingly the most efficient way to render their army of dead men powerless. Tormund reached one first, his dragonglass spearhead striking a White Walker in the gut. A sudden screech filled the air, shrill and sharp, and the Walker dissolved in front of their eyes. Instantly, hundreds of wights fell.

“Get the others!” Jon shouted with a hoarse voice, his lungs on fire. “Full tilt at the Walkers! Take them down!”

High above them, the two dragons’ shrieks and roars could be heard from a dozen miles away. So bright was the dragonflame that it looked as if the sky was on fire. Rhaegal slammed into Viserion, locking his jaws on the pale dragon’s neck. The living dragon and the dead were grappling as they fell from the sky. Rhaegal’s jaw continued to tighten around Viserion’s neck even as his claws opened the green dragon’s belly. The Night King leapt from Viserion’s back just before both dragons crashed into the frozen surface of Long Lake below, sending up a gush of water so high that it was as tall as the walls of Winterfell.

From the freezing water, Jon only saw Rhaegal rise again, crawling up onto the snowy lakeshore like some great green snake. The dragon spread his damp wings and when his head snapped forward, fire flew from his open jaws, bright and hot. Hundreds of wights were engulfed in the red flames. Eyes locked on Rhaegal, Jon ran towards him, slaying enemies to his right and left as he cut a path to the green-and-bronze beast. If he could just reach the dragon, and climb onto its back…

Arya ran after him, with Needle gripped in her left hand, slashing at living corpses. Suddenly a White Walker stepped in front of her, blocking her way, forcing a separation from her brother. Before she could act, the Walker swung its ice sword and struck the sword Jon had given her so long ago, and it shattered, shards of steel scattering everywhere like a rain of needles. Arya’s wail of dismay rent the night air, her breath a white mist in the dark. She dropped Needle’s useless hilt and hastily stepped backwards as the White Walker strode forward. Before she could grasp a firm hold on the hilt of her dagger, the Walker’s hand locked around her neck as she heard the strange sound of its laughter, cold and sharp.

Its fingers were so cold they seemed to burn her throat. She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth only a choking sound came out. All she could think about were the blue eyes that shone like stars, a crushing pain around her neck, and a cold so fierce her tears froze on her cheeks. Arya’s grappling fingers finally found the jeweled dragonbone hilt at her waist. The Walker’s fingers tightened. Her chest felt on fire, her throat frozen. She struggled in his grasp and then pulled at the Valyrian steel dagger, thrusting the blade forward desperately.

She heard a loud crack, and a shrill, sharp screech fill the air all around. Her eyes widened as the Walker’s body shattered into white dust, swirling away in a fine mist. Somewhere in the darkness around her, hundreds of wights were incapacitated. Arya planted her feet, steadying herself, staring about her, frantic, searching for Jon. Her gaze then fell on the green dragon, spewing bright flame from its jaws, and she could see him heading towards it. Wights began to descend on her, and she took off at a run, striking lethal blows with her dagger as she went.

*****

In a darkened bedchamber inside Winterfell’s Great Keep, Satin donned his new charcoal grey woolens and laced up his leather jerkin and well-worn leather boots. He then slipped about a heavy cloak of grey wool about his shoulders. Gone was the black clothing of the Night’s Watch, and to his surprise he found he had grown rather attached to the attire. In Oldtown, he’d never worn head-to-toe black; he’d been made to swagger around like a peacock in rich blues and greens and purples. It had worked, on men and women alike, especially highborns.

Trained to be as sweet and seductive as he was beautiful, skilled in every art of male and female love, by the time he was sixteen, his services were charged the highest rate in the brothel. Word of him spread, noblemen and women from all over the city and beyond seeking him out, paying handsomely for his attentions. By eighteen, he was the most expensive whore in Oldtown – a feat when the girls he worked alongside were costlier than any other brothel in the city. The owner of the establishment, Jeremy Flowers, was sorely grieved when he’d been forced to lose him at just eighteen years of age to the Night’s Watch. He’d barely reached his prime, Jeremy had told him, his honeyed voice full of regret.

Opening the chamber door, Satin walked out into the hallway ablaze with torchlight. He had no idea what time of night or day it was. He gazed at the nearby tower stairwell, the one that led up to the lord’s chambers belonging to Jon and Lady Sansa. Sighing, he moved away, passing the stairs and making his way to the castle yard. He then made his rounds, visiting the captain of the guard, master-of-horse, kennelmaster, and the cooks. When he walked inside the armory to speak with the master-at-arms and the blacksmith, he was pleased to see the forging of weapons from the abundant amount of dragonglass that had been brought from Dragonstone. Satin stepped over to a canvas sack full of crossbow quarrels, his fingers caressing their smooth square heads. He lifted a bolt from the sack and held it in his palm, featherlight and shiny black.

When he visited the moist warmth of the glass gardens, a serving girl gave him a flirtatious smile and put some blackberries in his palm. He thanked her and her cheeks blushed pink. Walking around the rows of fruits and vegetables, he popped the delicious berries into his mouth as his fingertips caressed the tops of plants and flowers. He came upon a bush of blue winter roses, and thoughts of Jon suddenly filled his head. With a sad sigh, he turned and departed the insulated warmth of the garden. To his left was the North Gate, closed, chained, and locked. To his right lay the godswood. With a sense of strange foreboding, he walked towards it.

He was soon standing before Maester Wolkan and Brandon Stark by the old weirwood tree. “My lords,” he announced himself. The maester eyed him, and Satin thought he recognized the all-too-familiar gaze of contempt. “Is there any concern I can give attention to? Any message I need to bring to your sister?” he asked the younger.

“Hello, Satin,” greeted Lord Brandon. “And no, nothing.”

He bowed his head. Gazing about the grove, he stared uneasily at the heart tree with the face carved into the white bark. The godswood was a dark, eerie place, and he didn’t care for it. “Do you know _anything_ of King Jon?”

The young lord gazed at him with glassy eyes. “I hope I will be able to help him. How are you finding your stewardship?”

“It’s an honor to serve Winterfell and the King in the North, m’lord,” he declared. He wanted to ask how he could help Jon, but his thoughts were interrupted.

“In every way that you can,” Lord Brandon replied in an impassive voice.

He blinked. Had there been an insinuation in the young lord’s tone? He shivered, pulling his cloak about him.

Bran Stark continued to stare at him with a direct, unflinching gaze. “You look in need of something warm.”

Satin paled, swallowing, the words hitting him like a blow to the gut. The Lady Sansa had told him about her brother’s visions, but he had thought they only revolved around the Night King and the White Walkers. If the young Lord Stark told her about… If he told anyone… Bowing his head in haste, he turned and walked away from the weirwood tree, moving as quickly through the ancient godswood as the frozen ground would allow.

Once inside the Great Keep, he made his way to the council chambers, taking two wrong turns and needing to backtrack, but finally arrived at his destination. Brienne of Tarth stood sentinel outside the room. Knocking on the door, Satin stepped inside the chambers. Candles were lit about the chamber and a fire crackled inside the stone hearth. Lady Stark sat leaning over the long table, brows knitted, her face pained. Something twisted in his gut. Did she know? Had her brother told her?

But when the Lady Sansa looked up to see him standing there, her expression lost its heaviness, and a smile broke across her face like sunshine, her eyes twinkled like blue stars. “Satin. And how is our steward this morning? Or afternoon? Evening?” She gestured towards the chair opposite her at the table.

Despite the pretty smile, his guts were still in anxious knots. He did as he was instructed and sat in the cushioned oak chair. _You must never show them how you feel inside;_ his mother had once told him. _Armor yourself with courtesy._ _Whether you are sad, happy, angry, or afraid, you must never let them see._ Satin smiled a tight little smile, trying to keep his face a mask, betraying nothing. “I’m well, m’lady.”

Gazing at her, he watched as her face fell, anxiety etching across her features once more. She really was beautiful, with fair skin, hair as red as autumn, and deep Tully blue eyes. He wanted to hate her. He’d tried – awfully hard, in fact. When she showed up at Castle Black and ran into Jon’s arms, an ominous feeling had come over him. Everything was about to change. He’d done his best to avoid being in the same room as her, to avoid speaking to her. All Jon wanted to talk about was his highborn lady of a sister, his childhood memories of her, and of how much she’d changed, how much she’d suffered. He stayed up all hours of the night sitting by the fire with her. He no longer had any interest in his former steward’s company, and Satin had wanted so badly to hate her, but he couldn’t. There was an iron will about her, yet there was also a softness, kindness and compassion. Although wanting to know more, much more about her, he instinctively understood that she wasn’t the type to open up easily.

He recalled the other day when he’d made the comment about Jon Snow’s _wedded happiness_ before riding off to war. He’d been fishing for a reaction, and although she hadn’t spoken a reply, the look on her face had told him enough. Part of him felt jealous, and maybe even slightly resentful, but he mostly found he was curious about their relationship and what exactly went on in their bridal bed. He wanted to know more but figured he shouldn’t push it so soon.  

He had wanted to hate Jon, too – hate him for abandoning his position as Lord Commander and leaving the Night’s Watch, for not taking him along when he rode south, for leaving him behind, for not loving him back. He’d tried so hard to hate him, but he couldn’t. He loved him too much. Satin could only hate himself. For he was the one who had gone against everything he was ever taught, everything he had worked hard to avoid. _No one will ever love a whore, so a whore should never love anyone_. How many times had Jeremy Flowers and all the girls told him that? His own mother? It had been beaten into him at the age of sixteen when he’d fancied himself in love with a serving girl at the Quill and Tankard inn. Jeremy hadn’t touched his face, though. He’d needed his face.

“So, how are things around the castle?” Lady Stark asked, masking her anxiety into a passive expression.

“The master-of-horse and kennelmaster are back on good terms with the cooks,” he declared, gazing at her. “The master-at-arms is working long hours to fortify Winterfell’s defenses with dragonglass. According to the captain of the guard, there is no sign of approaching danger from any direction, but… The people are scared. It’s been seven days, if calculations are correct, since the king marched towards the northern threat, and the world is still cloaked in darkness.”

She folded her hands atop the table. “And how do you think we should go about instilling confidence in them?”

Arching his brow, he pursed his lips. “Not an easy task the longer their king is away, the longer the sky remains black.” He sighed, wondering if Jon would succeed, if he’d return home. “I say we fortify the castle’s defenses as best we can. Catapults should be mounted on the battlements, all around the walls. The master-of-arms informed me that Winterfell has twenty. We can only hope that will be enough. When we fought at the battle for Castle Black, we had a lot less and we were able to hold them off, but… Winterfell is not the Wall. Barrels of pitch or lamp oil should be stored upon the battlements as well, anything that can burn. Only fire and dragonglass can stop the enemy… And Valyrian steel, of course,” he concluded.

She nodded. “See that it’s done.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Bowing his head, Satin stood and approached the door, wondering how Jon would react to finding him serving as Winterfell’s steward, wondering if his place there would be welcomed or despised by the man he loved. Would Sansa Stark insist upon keeping him in the position? But if her husband objected, would he be forced to confess their history? How would she look upon him then? Certainly not with pretty smiles, and kind eyes that sparkled. Something twisted in his gut at the thought.

Sansa sat gazing at the chamber door, long after the new steward had gone. She’d been matter-of-fact with him, keeping an air of formality, though there was something about him that she felt drawn to, that made her heart beat faster. She wanted to know more about him, about his family, if he still had any, about his life. And she wanted to know more about the Night’s Watch and the time he’d spent with Jon as his steward, but it wasn’t the time or place when there were far more important matters that required her attention.

Satin had been right. The king had been gone about a week, the darkness remained, and the air inside the castle was filling with fear. In the heart of every northerner, they knew true fear was reserved for the Long Night, when the sun hid its face for a generation, when children were seldom born, and those that were lived and died in the darkness while the direwolves grew gaunt and hungry, and the White Walkers moved through the land. Just as she and her siblings had heard the tales from Old Nan, every northerner grew up learning this fear. _Winter is coming._

Winter was here. Sansa too felt afraid, but not of the Night King or the Army of the Dead. Her own death no longer scared her. There had been moments over the years when she had prepared herself for it, even at times briefly contemplated bringing it about herself to end her suffering. No, the fear sinking its claws into her heart was the thought of Jon never returning home, of never seeing him again.

_Do you want to be loved, Sansa?_

_Everyone wants to be loved._

_Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same. The more people you love, the weaker you are. You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. You’ll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children._

Cersei’s “womanly wisdom.” At the time, she’d dismissed the queen’s words, spoken by a hateful liar. Sansa’s parents had always told her love was a strength, not a weakness. Robb loved her; he was out there fighting, and he was winning. He would kill them all and rescue her. But the older she became, and the more loss she endured, the more she began to put stock in Cersei’s words. She’d loved her mother, her father, her brothers, her sister. She’d loved Joffrey for a time and had later thought she was falling for Loras Tyrell, but she’d been a stupid little girl then. She’d loved the idea of love, of marriage and children. But the woman who had jumped from Winterfell’s battlements with Theon Greyjoy was not the same girl who’d first arrived there from the Vale. That girl was dead.

Or so she thought. Reuniting with Jon had meant she wasn’t alone in the world anymore. He was her brother and he cared for her, swore to look after her and protect her. But the harsh reality of the world had taught her how easily those she loved could be taken from her. She wanted to love and care for Arya and Bran with open arms, without restraint, but she knew she held back. To love was to open yourself to heartache and pain. She could lose them at any time, just as she’d lost her father and mother, Robb, and Rickon.

It had frightened her when Jon announced he was leaving for Dragonstone, the realization of how much she depended on him, on the security of his presence in her life. When he left, she could feel herself closing, hiding behind a steel wall of self-preservation. Although she wanted to, she couldn’t bring herself to love and care for him with an open heart. She held back with him, more so than anyone. She hadn’t allowed herself to trust him with her heart, even though she trusted him with her life.

Just by the look in Jon’s eyes, she could see just how much he loved and cared for her. But she had lost him, in a sense, something she was still coming to terms with. Her brother was gone, replaced by the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and her Aunt Lyanna. As her husband, he would love and protect her in a different way. One flesh, one heart, one soul. But upon their wedding night, she’d kept the wall of self-protection up. Her mind and heart had refused to open to him, even as her own body betrayed her with new sensations, becoming warm and wet, tightening, trembling at his intimate touch and wanting more. If her husband did come home, he would surely want to lay with her again, and again, and again. The thought at once excited and frightened her, as she would surely make it just as awkward and difficult as the first time.

But there was a good chance Jon might not ever return, and the thought filled her with dread, churned her stomach until she felt sick. A memory came unbidden to her mind, of something Mya Stone had once said to her – _Men come and go. They lie, or die, or leave you_. As tears began to well up in her eyes, Sansa acutely felt the painful truth in Cersei’s words of wisdom.

*****

Jon was fighting his way across the battlefield, both wight and Walker falling to his blade. Rhaegal continued to roar and spew fire up ahead. As he neared the dragon, the swell of wights died away, and all that lay between him and the green beast was the snow-covered ground. And then he heard it, a foreign tongue, a language like no other, a voice like the cracking of ice on a winter lake.

Turning his back to the dragon, Jon’s gaze fell on the Night King, standing not ten yards away, wielding a crystal ice sword, the weapon seemingly alive with a faint blue glow. This was it. This was his chance. He prayed to the gods of his father he would succeed. He moved steadily forward, towards the Great Walker, the green dragon continuing to breathe flame behind him. 

Valyrian steel and ice sword crashed. Instead of the sound of metal on metal, a high, thin sound like an animal screaming in pain pierced the air. Jon fought against his great foe desperately. All around him, the chaos of battle roared on. And then he saw an opening, a clear shot, but when he thrust his sword up into the Night King’s belly the point skidded off the metal chain mail, and the blade went spinning from Jon’s hand as he fell to the ground. His eyes went wide, panic rising inside him. _Why hadn’t his Valyrian steel penetrated easily like it did the others?_

Arya, seeing Jon was in trouble, began frantically running towards him, hacking her way through dead men, never taking her eyes off him. She tried to shout his name, but her throat constricted, and her voice croaked, damaged from the White Walker’s assault. Desperate to reach her brother, her king, anxious tears fell from her eyes, freezing on her cheeks as she rushed forward.

The Night King strode forward menacingly. From where he lay, Jon gazed up at the threat with wide eyes, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. He glanced over at his sword, out of arm’s reach. Suddenly, a large blur of white fur leapt between them, attacking the Other. “Ghost!” he cried out hoarsely. When the tip of the ice sword bit at his flank, his direwolf slid away, snarling, but came rushing in again. Ghost snarled and growled, snapping his teeth viciously.

Rolling on the frozen ground, he hurriedly lunged for his sword. But before he could reach it, he heard laughter, sharp as icicles. Turning back, he watched in horror as the Night King’s ice sword descended, a wave of helpless despair washing over him as the pale blade sliced through Ghost as if the direwolf had been made of silk. Jon’s agonizing wail rent the cold night air.

Tears were now fully streaming down Arya’s face, a desperate fear unlike anything she’d ever known pulsing through her as she raced towards him. Yet the dead men kept coming at her, preventing a clear path. She watched as Jon’s eyes went wide, crazed, his face contorting in painful rage. But sudden movement behind him caused her gaze to shift, and her mouth fell open as Viserion crawled towards her brother, having risen from the ice-cold lake.  

The dead dragon’s eyes no longer shone like blue stars but had become a familiar milky white. His head snapped forward, his jaws opening, aimed at Jon. Arya let out a strangled cry of warning. Blue flame erupted from the dead dragon’s open jaws, bright and cold, engulfing him. The cold seared through him, taking his breath away, locking him in a freezing blue prison. Jon’s hands and feet went numb. The roaring of the flame filled the world as the cold entered his bones, yet dimly through the blue firewall he heard Arya screaming. Before his eyes, he saw the Wall collapsing and King’s Landing burning and the Iron Throne melting and a dragon breathing flame over Winterfell.

Faster and faster the visions came, the blue firewall coming alive, as voices filled the air around him, strange and familiar. A valiant prince with long silver-blond hair and dark purple eyes was suddenly before him, riding on a stallion, galloping into battle. Blue flames floated behind his helm like silk streamers. He saw brilliantly sparkling jewels fly from the chest of the prince and watched him sink to his knees in the water. _Lyanna_ , the prince murmured with his dying breath. _The Lord of Light made us male and female. In our joining, there’s power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows._

A thousand droplets of pale blue flame swam before his eyes. _Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born._ He saw a cloth three-headed dragon swaying on poles amidst a cheering crowd. _You spent too much time with us, Jon Snow. You can never be a kneeler again._ He saw winter roses, blue as frost, blooming from the walls of Winterfell and a pack of six direwolves emerging from a forest made of pale blue flame. _His name must be Aegon,_ the prince then said to a girl heavy with child as she lay in a great wooden bed, blue winter roses clutched in her hand. _He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire._ The roaring fire howled fiercely in Jon’s ears, like a ghost wolf big as mountains. He saw Sansa limned in cold mist, blue eyes sparkling, a crown of frost on her brow, her long flowing hair a nimbus of blue flame. _This power in you, you resist it, and that’s your mistake._

For an instant, the visions and voices ceased, and Jon glimpsed the Night King before him. _Now,_ he thought. _Now._ His hand grasped hold of Longclaw’s hilt, lifting it from the ground. Stepping out from the dragonflame, he drew his sword from the fire, and strode forward to meet the Night King, armored in ice, the Valyrian steel blade of his sword alive with a faint blue glow. _I am the light that brings the dawn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my writing motto has continuously been, "Like GRRM and D&D, I apologize for nothing." But... I do apologize for this. RIP Ghost. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of heartbreaking loss, Sansa and Satin face a bleak post-war reality, but realize they don't have to face it alone.

Satin ran across the courtyard towards the armory as the sounds of battle filled his ears. The Army of the Dead had reached Winterfell. From atop the battlements, a storm of fire arrows hissed through the air towards the approaching enemy. Scorpions loaded with dragonglass spears and catapults with barrels of burning pitch loosed at will. “Kill those dead bastards,” he heard Jaime Lannister command from atop the inner wall.

Quickly grabbing a crossbow and a handful of dragonglass bolts, he rushed back to the Great Keep. He hurried across dimly lit halls until finally coming to the tower steps that led to the lord’s chambers. When he reached the top of the stairs, to his surprise he saw Brienne of Tarth wasn’t at her usual post. Without knocking, he opened the door and entered. His lady was standing in front of the fire blazing in the stone hearth, but she didn’t turn to look at him, and simply stared into the flames.

“The enemy is here, Lady Sansa,” he breathed, his voice full of panic.

“I know, Satin.” If the Night King’s army had come to Winterfell it could only mean one thing: Jon was likely dead, and Arya. A wave of despair threatened to overtake her, but she pushed those feelings down, desperately trying to control them.

His brows furrowed. “Where is the Lady Brienne? She’s not outside your door.”

Sansa finally turned from the hearth to look at him. “I sent her to protect Bran. He needs her protection more than I do right now.” Something bolstered inside her, a feeling of hope stirred. “He may be our last best chance.”

He didn’t understand what a crippled boy in a wheeled chair who saw visions in the weirwood tree could possibly do against the Night King, so he said nothing. Silence filled the room, apart from the fire crackling in the hearth. Finally, he spoke. “All the women and children have been taken down to the crypts, just as you commanded, m’lady.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“I have to get you to the crypts as well,” he urged, stepping forward. “It’s the safest place for you.”

Before she could reply, a sudden chill crept over the room. The fire blew out in the stone hearth. “Satin, what’s happening?” she whispered, her words frosting in the cold air.

He stared at the chamber door. Gripping the crossbow in one hand, he turned back towards Sansa and quickly moved towards her. Grasping her arm, gentle yet firm, he led her to the very back wall of the room, the furthest spot from the oak-and-iron door. His hand gripping her waist, he slowly pushed her aside until she stood behind him. He then removed a bolt of dragonglass from his pocket and slipped it into the notch of the crossbow.

They shivered from fear and cold, and their breathing became hard, misting in front of their faces. The air itself seemed frozen, and yet a moment later, the cold became so fierce, it was a burning in their chests. Sansa had never felt so cold. She raised her hand to Satin’s arm, holding onto him tightly. They watched as the chamber door then slowly opened, her fingers digging into his arm. Their eyes widened in terror.

The crossbow snapped.

*****

The weight of Sansa’s grief was almost too much to bear, and yet she fought hard to suppress it. The White Walker had perished, a dragonglass bolt to the heart—if they had hearts—and Satin had gotten her safely to the crypts. Bran had been locked in one of his visions in the godswood, present and yet far away. Whatever he had done, it succeeded. The other Walkers fell, as did their wight soldiers that had descended on Winterfell. The darkness fled and the sun returned, but Jon and Arya had not. It was seven days since the war had seemingly been won, and there had been no sight or sound of them.

A knock on her chamber door roused her from her painful reverie. “Yes,” she answered wearily.

The door opened and Satin appeared, his usual routine before retiring to his own bedchamber for the night. “Is there anything more I can do for you, m’lady?”

“No.” Her own voice sounded hollow to her ears.

Satin’s brows furrowed with concern. She was wearing nothing but a silk shift, not having left her chambers in several days. He glanced at the untouched platter of bread and cheese on her table. “Have you eaten at all today?”

She shook her head, not meeting his gaze.

“Have you slept?” he asked, his sweet voice full of compassion. At least the room was warm, he told himself. A fire crackled in the hearth, and several candles were lit around the chamber and on both tables beside the large four-poster, bathing the bed in a golden glow.

“I can’t sleep.”

The tears she had been withholding finally brimmed over and slipped down her cheeks. Embarrassed at her loss of control, she turned away from him. The last thing she wanted was his pity, and his worry. She had gotten enough of that from Brienne, from her handmaidens and everyone else in the castle.

Satin frowned. Her sadness had made her no less beautiful, and it pained him to see her like this. Her grief for Jon only made his more poignant, as he was forced to grieve in silence, both his love and his pain hidden away, locked inside himself where no one could learn of it. If there was anyone who felt the loss of Jon more keenly than himself, it was the woman in front of him. He walked towards her, closing the distance between them. He hoped to offer her at least some little comfort and perhaps be comforted in return.

His hand closed around her upper arm, warm against her bare skin, setting off a chain reaction. She turned and gazed into his face, etched with anxiety for her. In the depths of his dark eyes, she saw tenderness and compassion and a well of sadness. Something moved between them. Something fragile, and yet charged. Overwhelmed, her face crumpled, and she moved forward into his embrace. She buried her face in his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his waist, and let him hold her until at last her sobs began to fade and her grief was spent. And then slowly, surprisingly, everything began to change. The pain of her loss was superseded by the trembling of her limbs and the quickening of her heart.

Slowly, Sansa lifted her head and looked into Satin’s dark eyes. She knew she should move, but she couldn’t seem to. Her heart was beating rapidly. All she could see was that mouth, and all she could think about was how she wanted to feel it on hers. She knew she should suppress such thoughts, but she couldn’t think of a good reason why in the moment. She was sure she would later, but she didn’t want to think about later. The hopes she had held for the future were gone. _But there was now,_ she thought, her misery starting to fade as he lifted his hands to cradle her face. _There was tonight._ There was no need to think about tomorrow; tonight was all that mattered.

As Satin gazed into her face, he recognized the look that came over it. He’d seen it a hundred times, if not a thousand. He knew what she wanted. She wanted to forget, to drown her grief with something else, someone else. He remembered a time when Jon had given him the same kind of look. His body grew harder, hotter. “You really are beautiful,” he murmured.

She sighed. She didn’t feel beautiful and couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so. But she didn’t want to think about the past. She just wanted to escape, from her life, from herself.

He lowered his lips to hers. His kiss was searing, and exactly what she needed, she realized quickly, moaning low in her throat. Sansa wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed Satin back with a wild, demanding need. She was tired of pretending she didn’t need to be held, kissed, touched. Tired of long separations and the absence of tenderness in her life. Tired of regretting the last night spent with Jon and her inability to open herself fully to him, to love him as she really wanted to, as she knew he loved her. She remembered the sparks of pleasure he’d given her, but she’d been too closed off to allow her body to accept it. She didn’t want to regret anymore. She wanted this closeness, this comfort. And most surprisingly of all, she wanted… Satin.

He had thought Sansa Stark was unshakeable. She was one of the calmest, most capable, and level-headed women he had ever met. It shocked him to realize he had been wrong. Beneath her stoic and cool womanly demeanor was a heart as tender and vulnerable as any girl’s. Realizing this made him want to protect her from anymore hurt, to look after her as Jon would have wanted him to. Which meant not doing what he so badly wanted to do right now.

Satin lifted his head, breaking their kiss. “Lady Sansa…” He was breathing hard. He gazed into her eyes. “We can’t do this.”

She frowned, shaking her head, drawing her arms down from his shoulders.  

“You need to think about this,” he implored fervently.

She looked at him as if she feared his rejection more than anything else. Again, she defiantly shook her head. “No thinking, Satin. Not tonight,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with more tears, the sorrow and vulnerability creeping back into her voice. “I’ve already done too much. Thinking doesn’t help me. Tonight, I want to feel, and that’s all I want.”

She again wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against his chest. Satin was reminded of what her life had previously entailed, of what she had most likely been lacking, needs that—judging from what little he gathered from things she had told him—had never been met. He knew he shouldn’t be the one to show her what it was her life had been missing, what he suspected she might even think she could no longer possess or could ever possibly understand. But even as he searched her eyes and warned himself not to go down that path, reminding himself she was highborn and a queen and he was just a whore from an Oldtown brothel, Satin could feel his reasons slipping away. She was a beautiful woman and she needed. She was alone, and so was he. They had both lost the one they loved. What harm could there be in offering each other comfort, in easing each other’s pain?

And suddenly knowing he needed her as much as she did, Sansa threaded her hands through his black curls, tilted her lips to meet his, and kissed him with a hunger she had never felt before. She kissed him until she couldn’t breathe from wanting him. He swiftly picked her up and carried her over to the canopied featherbed, easing her down onto the mattress. She was glad of it, for she was trembling so hard she didn’t think she would’ve been able to stand.

Their breaths were ragged as he removed his boots and undid the lacings on his breeches. In the candlelight, her transparent shift left little to the imagination and Satin hardened even more at what he saw. Perfect, full breasts, neither too big or small, with pink nipples poking up at the fabric. A slender waist, and long shapely legs, a tiny scrap of fabric covering a nest of auburn curls between them. And everywhere, smooth soft skin that begged to be kissed and caressed. Knowing the best way to hold back was to remain as fully clothed for as long as possible, he climbed atop the bed and lay beside her.

Sansa shuddered as his hands slid over her hips and moved slowly up over her to cup her breasts. She jerked in a breath and closed her eyes as his thumbs found and traced the pink nipples through the transparent silk. She sighed her pleasure and swayed against him as her nipples puckered with pleasure, then turned her lips up to his. She wrapped her arms around his neck once again and kissed him with abandon.

He gazed at her, while she lay against the pillows regarding him with a mixture of need and caution. Her lips glistened from their kissing, her breath came in rapid pants. Determined to give her what she wanted and needed, determined to make the pain she had suffered fade away, at least for one night, Satin slipped an arm beneath her and moved her onto her side.

As they faced each other, he forgot about all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this, all the reasons why they might regret this, and gave himself over to the moment as surely as she was giving herself over to him. Anchoring an arm at her waist, he shifted her close and bent his head until his lips met hers. She shuddered softly at the contact and opened her mouth to his. The combination of her shy inexperience and her need nearly undid him. He gathered her closer and she kissed him hungrily, softly, slowly, and then hungrily again, until she shifted restlessly against him, making a soft, whimpering sound in the back of her throat.

He could see she needed more, and he slipped first his hand, then his leg, between her knees, holding them apart. The skin of her inner thighs was satiny-smooth, and he was pleased to learn, sensitive to the slightest caress. Over and over he stroked her, until her hips took on an urgent rhythm and she strained against him, needing more intimate touch. His own body throbbing, pushing him toward a climax of his own, he held back and eased his fingers beneath the silk fabric of her smallclothes, slipping them between her delicate folds. Moaning softly, she surged against him. Her wetness bathed his fingertips.

She trembled and, still kissing him ardently, caught him against her. “I need more,” Sansa whispered against his mouth, trembling with wanting him. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Knowing he was having a difficult time holding off as well, Satin shifted her onto her back, whisked her silk smallclothes down her legs, shoved down his woolen breeches and slid over her, into her. With a low, exultant cry of surprise, Sansa rose up to meet him, arching beneath him. “I don’t want to hold back,” she whimpered, tears filling her eyes. “Not this time.”

Her legs rose up and locked around his hips, urging him not to restrain. He drove into her, into the tight wet heat of her cunt, thrusting deeply, fully. Every deep stroke inside made Sansa gasp. Every slight tilt of his pelvis made his cock hit a different, sensitive area inside her. He drove her farther into that spiral of desire, until she exploded in a fury of heat and clenching pleasure. Now that he no longer needed to temper his own release, Satin let go and concentrated on his own pleasure, on how good she felt around him, until his own climax surged through him.

They held each other tight for several moments. The only sound in the room was the fire blazing in the hearth, their ragged breaths, and pounding hearts. Satin eased away from her, relieving her of his weight, and rolled onto his back. Before he could pull her into his arms again, Sansa shifted, sat up, and moved away, putting her back to him. He realized that reality was setting in.

Sansa wished she knew what to do or say in the wake of such an unexpected turn of events. She had never been in this situation before, had never given in to lust, had never eased her heartache and loneliness in such an intimate way.

His expression curious as well as anxious, Satin propped himself up on his elbow. “Are you all right, Lady Sansa? Do you regret…?”

She shook her head and turned to look at him. “No. I’m done regretting.”

He smirked, completely kicking off his breeches, instead of pulling them up. “Good. Because we’re not finished.” Lifting his tunic, he tossed it to the floor beside his discarded woolens. Her eyes widened in surprise. “That was great as far as quick ones go, but that’s not really my specialty,” he said with a suggestive, hungry look. “The night is still young.”

Sansa flushed as he stretched out naked beside her. He truly was beautiful, with pretty dark eyes and thick black curls, his body lithe and slender, sturdy, with smooth soft skin covering a chest that looked even harder and broader without his tunic. Lower still, he was also beautiful, masculine and bigger than any she had ever seen before. She studied his face, and all she could see was a matter-of-fact acceptance of what had occurred between them and an eager willingness to be intimate again. Perhaps he had also suffered loss and heartache, had endured a long drought of tenderness and physical touch.

Would it be so disastrous if she allowed this to happen again? To keep happening? It was meaningless and mindless. It had felt wonderful, and for a flew blissful moments all her pain and sadness and grief had disappeared. That’s all it was—momentary—but maybe that was enough, maybe that’s all she could hope for from now on. She continued to study Satin, as the heat of his body next to hers enticed her, his expression determined. Helpless to resist his silent, sensual assault, she shifted and moved closer, lying back down beside him.  

“You are so beautiful,” Satin murmured, his voice a low husky rumble in his throat. And the way he looked at her then—with such heat and passion—Sansa knew that no matter what happened she would at least never doubt herself about that again.

*****

A miracle soon occurred. Arya returned to Winterfell, clinging for life on the back of her direwolf, Nymeria. The bells had rung upon her sister’s return, telling the blessed news that the youngest daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn was alive and well. Relief had filled Sansa’s heart, as did hope that Jon was not far off behind Arya. Once she’d been bathed and fed and sufficiently cared for, she told her tale. The last she knew of Jon, she had seen him clashing with the Night King and then the wight dragon engulfed him in blue flames. That was the last thing she remembered before Nymeria saved her from the cold.

Days passed, and Jon never came. Yet a raven did, and with it a message from the south. Daenerys Targaryen had attacked King’s Landing, setting off wildfire caches hidden beneath the city. The capitol was in ruins, the Red Keep and its Iron Throne destroyed. Her green dragon had eventually followed her and was last seen flying over the decimated King’s Landing, rumors spreading down south that a rider had been seen atop the beast, but the message contained nothing of Queen Cersei or the whereabouts of Daenerys herself, whether they were living or dead. The northern lords soon began arriving in Winterfell, intent on establishing order and starting repairs on the castle.

Sansa had no idea what was going on around her, and even though sound filled her council chambers, she had no idea what was being said. Her mind had been a fog of hopelessness and grief, and her loneliness would've been unbearable if not for Satin, but now she was faced with the possibility that Jon might not truly be lost to her. She needed him now more than ever, but he was still nowhere to be found. Could it be possible he had survived the war and taken the green dragon south, had gone after Daenerys? Was he the rider? Would he be able to defeat her? Would she ever see him again? She wanted to believe that he was merely absent, that he was still out there protecting his people from their enemies. That their separation was only temporary, that they hadn’t been parted forever. But how would she confess what she had done?

The need to hear his voice, see his face, and feel his arms around her, burned like a fiery blaze within Sansa’s heart, throbbed painfully beneath her ribs. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying, but it was useless, and a single tear escaped, cascading down her cheek. She brushed it away. Quickly rising from her chair, the anxious conversations between the lords sitting around her instantly ceasing, she excused herself and left the room.

Later on, she lay beneath the canopy of her four-poster, longing for and dreading the same thing: Jon’s return. If he ever came back. As much as she was desperate to see him, to enjoy the safety and comfort of his presence, her stomach churned into knots of fear at the thought of him coming home. She wasn’t sure which outcome would be worse: stormy rage and seething disappointment over her betrayal with Satin, or, more than likely, Jon’s silent, broody, and heartbroken acceptance of what had occurred in his absence.

She felt her grief-stricken body and mind pulling her under, but she fought off sleep. She was afraid to sleep, afraid to dream, but knew it was a losing battle. Closing her eyes, Sansa tucked the warm furs more closely around her, wishing it was Jon’s arms instead, wrapping her in a tight embrace. As she felt herself drifting off, she thought she could almost hear his voice, telling her that everything would be all right, that they would be together soon, and that they would make things right again. She wanted so badly to believe those comforting words, and when she finally succumbed to sleep, the sound of Jon’s soothing voice was resonating inside her head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satin shows Sansa how to help herself, leading to realizations and complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexually explicit material.

After months of reports of political upheaval in the south, of alliances made and broken, betrayals and war, of a dragon battle in the sky over the ruby ford of the Trident, a scroll finally reached Winterfell written and signed by Jon’s hand. Cersei Lannister was dead, as was Daenerys Targaryen and her last two dragons. Ser Jorah Mormont and Lord Varys had also perished. Tyrion Lannister had been tried and executed for treason. After convening with Arianne Martell, Leyton Hightower, and Willas Tyrell as well as legitimizing Gendry as the Baratheon heir to Storm’s End, temporary order was restored in the south. Jon would soon be returning home, along with Arya, who, when learning of the possibility that he was still alive, had ridden south, taking Gendry with her. There had been no stopping her.

Sansa was sitting in front of the fireplace, scroll in hand, a powerful mix of emotions still flooding her at this news, even hours after reading it. Untold relief at knowing Jon was truly alive. Sweet, sweet affection and a powerful longing to see him tempered by the gnawing sense of guilt. Her mother had once told her that a marriage built on lies was no marriage at all. She would have to tell Jon the truth.

A knock on her chamber door stirred her from her thoughts. She gazed at it, her stomach tightening, and stood up from her chair. “Yes,” she finally answered.

The door opened to reveal Satin standing there holding a candle. “Is there anything more I can do for you before I retire for the night, m’lady?”

She shook her head, meeting his matter-of-fact gaze. She suspected he had felt nothing about what had occurred between them, that he was far too experienced, in ways that she was not, to have been much affected by their brief intimacy. Months ago, when rumors first reached the castle of another dragonrider, believing it to be a possible sign that Jon still lived, she had immediately halted what had shortly begun with her steward. He had understood, had given no protest, and his dutiful attentions to her hadn’t changed, nor had his demeanor around her.

She had expected to eventually hear talk of him among her handmaidens or the servants in the castle, for a man in his prime would be expected to seek out his pleasures where he could find them, but other than a general admiration for his polite manners and good looks, she heard no gossip about him. She’d warm at this thought, feeling pleased, but also confused. Why should it matter to her whether he took up with others or not? He was young and free and unmarried. She loved her husband, wanted her husband. She cared nothing for Satin, at least not in that way, she told herself. She found she had to tell herself quite often.

The steward considered her for another moment and nodded. There was so much Satin wanted to say to her, and yet he knew that he couldn’t. When she had put a stop to their intimacy months earlier, he’d been surprised at the disappointment he’d felt. It wasn’t the disappointment of a lost opportunity to fulfil his physical needs, for he knew there were plenty within the castle he could easily get off with, not to mention the winter town. It was the loss of her. He had somehow felt connected to Jon through her, as if her love for him had made his own even more real, that in helping her he was also helping Jon in some strange way. He had keenly felt the loss of the intimate connection he’d shared with her for so brief a time.

“Well, then I’ll take my leave. I’ll see you in the morning.” He bowed his head and turned to walk back through the open doorway.

“Satin,” she blurted, calling him back.

He turned and gazed at her. “Yes, m’lady?”

She licked her lips, hesitating. “Jon is coming home.”

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Truly?”

“Yes,” she breathed, smiling for the first time she could remember.

Their eyes met and held, and they smiled as if they understood the happiness they both felt at this news. Satin was overcome with emotion, as if his heart would burst. Without thinking, he rushed forward and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled wonderful, and her warmth and soft red hair brushing against his face filled him with longing. But the action had caught Sansa off guard, and she backed away reflexively. For a moment a strange awkwardness hung in the air between them.

“I’m so sorry, m’lady,” he stammered. “Forgive me.”

Sansa sighed, the momentary tension dissipating. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and took his hand. “It’s all right, Satin. I think I’m the one who should be asking for your forgiveness. What happened between us wasn’t right, and I never should’ve put you in that position. It was undignified of me and as Winterfell’s steward, you deserve nothing but my respect.”

He shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, m’lady. It happened because I wanted it to happen. I still want it to happen, but I understand and accept your reasons.” He hadn’t planned on saying any such thing, but now that he’d spoken the words out loud, he knew them to be true.

Blushing, she slipped her hand from his and began nervously playing with her fingers. She couldn’t look him in the eye. “There are some nights,” she whispered, feeling her face grow hot. “Some nights when I feel… lonely or frustrated and I can’t sleep. Nights when I ache from it and want so badly to call for you or go to you…” Her confession trailed off. “But as long as my husband lives, then I must live for him. I belong to him.”

Satin nodded. “I understand. On those nights, you’ll just have to ease your own frustrations.”

“Ease my own frustrations?” she questioned, her brows knitting.

“Yes. You know, bring yourself to release.”

Sansa blinked and stared.

He gave her a bewildered look. “Give yourself pleasure?”

“I’ve never done that,” she stated. She wasn’t sure whether she should feel embarrassed or not.

Considering her for a moment, Satin felt a tinge of sadness, compassion for her young years spent as a captive in King’s Landing and then married off to Ramsay Bolton. Everyone at the Wall knew what he was. It was clear she’d had very little pleasure in her life and hadn’t had the freedom in her youth to explore her desires, to learn her own needs. “I can show you how, if you want me to.”

She hesitated, not knowing how she should answer. Thoughts of her wedding night with Jon sprung forward, of the indescribable tension coiled tight at her center and the delicious ache for release, thoughts of her brief time with Satin and the pleasure that had surged through her body. She could make herself feel that way? He could really teach her? She remembered Margaery’s words so long ago, about men with experience being a good thing. She quickly made up her mind. “Yes, I want you to show me,” Sansa decided.

*****

Satin reclined on the featherbed with Sansa in front of him beneath the canopy of dove-grey velvet drapes, his back against the pillows, and his legs stretched out on either side of her. He was sitting close behind her, and his voice was soft and sweet in her ears.

“First, you should think about something that arouses you,” he instructed. “What do you like to think about, that fills you with desire?”

She blushed, feeling thankful that he was sitting behind her and couldn’t see her face. “Jon,” she answered sheepishly.

Satin smirked. They had that in common. “Good. What about Jon arouses you?”

Sansa let out a nervous giggle, and then took a steadying breath. She felt embarrassed but wasn’t sure why. Unlike the last time she had been in an intimate situation with Satin, she was still clothed in her silk shift. He’d made love to her before, more than once, naked and openly exposed, and she hadn’t felt nearly as nervous as she did in this moment. For some reason she felt on the verge of jumping out of her skin. Maybe it was voicing her desires out loud, putting them into words, that was making her feel so timid about this.

She thought about the question for a moment. “His hands,” she finally replied.

Satin smiled and, lifting his hands from the mattress, slid them gently up and down her arms, caressing her skin, coaxing her to relax. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, his full lips brushing against her ear. “And think of Jon’s hands.”

She did as she was told, closing her eyes, breathing deeply and relaxing into his touch. With his lips on the outer shell of her ear, whispering sweet nothings of Jon and how much he would have loved to be there right now, touching her, Satin swept his fingertips down her arms and then to her legs.

Soft mewls erupted from the back of Sansa’s throat as he pulled back the hem of her shift above her hips, sensual thoughts of Jon swirling inside her head. His hands stroked her inner thighs, then went lightly, gently, between them, lingering there but not touching where she so desperately wanted to be touched. Her breathing became shallow as she felt warmth spread through her body from her fingertips to her toes. An indescribable need was building inside her.

“Open your eyes, Sansa.”

She did so and he moved his hand to grasp her thigh. “Spread your legs,” he commanded, placing gentle pressure as she did as she was instructed. “Lean back against me and look down at yourself.”

Sansa shifted on the mattress, leaning back against Satin, spreading her legs wider. Her gaze then drifted down to her nakedness, at her patch of auburn curls at the apex of her plump mound.

“What do you see?” he breathed into her ear, making her tremble.

She again gazed down at herself but felt embarrassed at her inability to describe her own body. It was her cunt. What else should she say? Shaking her head, she gave a slight shrug.

Satin smiled, his lips brushing her skin. “Perhaps you need some assistance with describing it. May I?” He lifted his hand from her thigh, where his fingertips had been languidly stroking her soft skin, and moved toward her center, pausing between her legs.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Sansa nodded as she licked her lips.

Smirking, he slowly guided his hand to her center. “Watch,” he whispered. His fingertips brushed against her sensitive skin and she gasped. “Look at how beautiful you are. Your pretty folds are so swollen and pink, it would drive Jon mad with the need to be inside you, to pound you with his big cock.”

Moaning, Sansa’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and her hips arched off the mattress. Her hands flew to Satin’s thighs, her fingers digging into his woolen breeches. She whimpered, surprised at herself. The words were filthy and lecherous, and yet they made her blood boil and her body throb. She wanted more.

He chuckled. “You like that sort of talk, huh? That’s good. You’re learning something new about yourself.”

He was learning about her as well. His cock thickened, his own desire stirring, throbbing against his lacings. Moving down past her folds, his fingertips found the soft, warm core of her and she moaned low in her throat. He again pressed her to open her eyes and watch. “See how wet you are,” he groaned in her ear. “Your body knows what you want. Jon would take one look at how wet you are with need and he would want to bury his fingers in this sweet cunt of yours. He would fuck you with his hand and feel you coming around him, all tight and wet.”

“Oh gods,” she gasped, her body tensing.

He continued to caress her folds, gathering her wetness, circling her entrance with his fingertips. “Think of Jon’s cock inside you, filling you up. Think of his tongue on you, sucking your nipples into his hot mouth.”

She whimpered again and her hips arched off the mattress, her center coiling even tighter, the exquisite tension building. “I can’t,” she panted. “I can’t take it.”

Satin quickly found her swollen bud of femininity and caressed her until she began to squirm and whimper even more. “This right here. Give me your hand.”

She lifted her right hand from his leg and he gently took her in his palm, lowering it to her center. Satin held onto her waist, supporting her as she leaned back against him. “Now, you do it.”

She swallowed and closed her eyes, trying to repeat what Satin had been doing. It didn’t feel nearly as good as when he touched her, but it didn’t feel bad either. She felt like a timid girl no longer, but a woman learning the power of her own body. Delving her fingers into her wetness, she explored her cunt, caressing her swollen folds and applying pressure to the throbbing bud from which all her pleasure radiated. The tension in the pit of her stomach began to build again, her center becoming increasingly slick. Sansa became hot and needy, to the point of bursting. 

Sitting behind her, Satin thought he was going to explode. His throbbing cock ached with the pressure of unspent desire, his own body responding to his words and her delicious sounds. Every muscle burned with tension. His hands clenched into fists as he struggled to control himself, but it was no use. He hurriedly undid his lacings and freed his cock.

Grabbing hold of his pulsing, engorged flesh, Satin closed his eyes and began stroking himself. “Do you remember how it felt to have Jon’s cock inside you?” he moaned, his hand moving up and down, stopping to rotate over the large head to spread the pre-come. “That delicious moment when he pushes his thick cock inside you and you can’t think, just feel. His cock feels so good inside you, stretching you open, thrusting all the way inside, filling you perfectly to the hilt.”  

Sansa’s mind flooded with wanton lust, images of Jon’s naked body swimming behind her eyes. His hard muscle and smooth skin, his large, rough yet gentle hands, his mouth on hers, kissing her passionately, his cock swollen with desire for her. Pleasure surged through her body, her blood sang with it, and she cried out. This time her climax was different. A dozen small spasms strung together, each one increasingly intense, her fingers stroking hard and fast over her swollen bud, coaxing from it every drop of pleasure. The last one left her limp and languorous, her arms falling to her sides, her hands resting on the steward’s legs.

Satin was lost in his own desire, his own pleasure, his own thoughts. “You’re so wet and slick inside but his cock is so big,” he whimpered, his fingers moving expertly up and down his throbbing erection, caressing the underside of his shaft from his balls to the weeping head of his cock, his strokes growing faster. “He stretches you so wide, but then his cock feels so good, heavenly good.”

Still catching her breath, Sansa sat up and turned to gaze at him. Her mouth watered as she stared at the heavy shaft in his hand, his palm stroking up, squeezing the succulent, fat cockhead, and then stroking back down. His eyes were slammed shut, filthy words of lust pouring from his lips in a steady stream. Focused, intent, as if he had forgotten she was in the room. “Jon loves the feel of you, he tells you how hot and tight you are, how good you feel around him,” he groaned. “He’s so big and so hard, and you feel him throb inside you, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. And then he’s moaning your name and filling you so deep inside with his warmth and it feels so good.”

Panting, Satin’s hand pumped vigorously. His cock pulsed, thickened. He could feel his balls draw up tight to the base of his hard shaft. He felt his pleasure build inside, intense heat surging through his body, his blood roaring in his ears. With a final thrust into his hand, his entire body tensed, and his mind went blank with pleasure. His hoarse cry filled the bedchamber as he came and came, images of Jon swimming in his head.

Sansa stared, wide-eyed, watching his face as he climaxed, watching Satin’s release spill from his swollen head in a thick torrent, coating his cock and his hand as he cried out. “Jon… Jon… Jon…,” he moaned and whimpered, his voice full of desperate longing as waves of pleasure racked him.

He collapsed back against the pillow, breathing hard, waiting for his heart to slow to normal. He finally opened his eyes to see Sansa staring at him. His stomach twisted into knots. What had he said? He couldn’t remember. Why had he lost control? He felt foolish. He quickly wiped his hand against his leg and tucked his softening cock back inside his breeches.

Silently, she leaned forward and lifted her hand to his face, wiping the tears from his cheek. He hadn’t realized he was crying. Sansa thought she should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness, but to her surprise she didn’t. Instead, something deep inside her constricted with sadness. “You love him, too, don’t you?” she whispered.

He swallowed against the lump growing in his throat and nodded.

“Does he love you?” she asked, curious whether the lust-filled words he’d uttered were simply desires or memories.

He sniffed, tears filling his eyes again. “No, not the way I want him to,” he confessed. _Who would ever love a whore_ , a voice bitterly reminded him. He was probably making a huge mistake, remembering his mother’s words of warning, her reminders to always hide his true feelings from those who used him. But for some reason, he felt safe with Lady Sansa, and believed her to be a good woman with a good heart, someone who’d never cause him any harm.

She sighed. “It must be difficult for you, to be here in Winterfell, with me. To be constantly reminded…”

Satin shook his head. “No. This is the first place where I…” He sighed. “Jon is so present here, and to be so often reminded of him is no burden. I know what I am, and I know what he is. To serve as steward, to serve him, and you as his queen, is more than I ever could have asked for. Knowing that I can be useful to him in any way is enough for me.”

Sansa nodded quietly, her heart filling with sympathy and compassion for him. She moved next to him on the featherbed, leaning back against the pillows beside him. She didn’t know what to say, what to think. They sat in silence for some time, until Satin turned to her and smiled.

“I’m proud of you,” he admitted good-naturedly. “Now you can take your pleasure in your own hands. Literally.” He grinned at her. “So, you’ll no longer feel tempted to call for me or, _scandalously,_ come down to my bedchamber, on those nights you feel lonely. Hopefully your newfound knowledge can make these nights easier until your husband arrives.”

He then slid off the bed and started to head toward the chamber door. “Goodnight, m’lady. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sansa nervously played with her fingers, debating within herself. “Satin,” she called to him as his hand grasped the door latch.

Turning back, he smirked. “Yes, m’lady?” He had her. She was intrigued by him and wanted more. He knew she did. In only a matter of time, he could have her wrapped around his finger and eating out of the palm of his hand. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“What you did… to yourself…?” she hesitantly ventured.

“Yes?” Grinning at her, he arched his brows, and started moving back towards the bed.

Her eyes widened at his sensual saunter, and she bit her bottom lip. “Does Jon do that?”

Satin let out a breathy laugh, thrusting his tongue in the side of his cheek. “He probably does, m’lady, yes.”

“Would he like it if…” She stared down at her fingers, still chewing her lip. “If I did that to him?”

“I’m sure he would.”

Sansa felt her body thrum with excitement, and she gazed at him as he came closer, placing his hands on the edge of the mattress and leaning over. “Would you teach me how to do it?” she requested.

His dark eyes sparkling with a mischievous, lust-filled glint, he smirked. “It would be my pleasure, m’lady.”

She watched him turn and walk back towards the door, bow his head and wish her a good night, then disappear on the other side of it. Laying her head back against her pillow, Sansa smiled and felt her body tighten in sweet anticipation of both her future lessons with Satin and Jon’s arrival. She was no longer afraid. She no longer felt awkward and tense about her body, or his, but excited, wanting to experience anything and everything. She just wanted to love him, to finally let him love her.

Her body still thrumming, Sansa ran her hand down her stomach and slipped her fingers between her legs. Her hard nub throbbed, and tension built in her thighs as she stroked herself. She closed her eyes, picturing Jon kissing her, sucking her breasts. Then Satin was there behind her, kissing her neck. Both men’s mouths hot and wet on her skin. She imagined it was Jon’s cock and Satin’s mouth between her legs and not her own fingers. Shuddering, a powerful climax hit her, wave after wave of pleasure washing over her.

As Satin walked inside his own bedchamber, he wondered why he kept involving himself with Sansa Stark. He should decline her requests, keep their relationship strictly as a steward and his lady. She was Jon’s wife, and he would soon be returning home. Nothing good could come from this, and yet he didn’t want to stay away from her. After he undressed and got in bed, he lay staring up at the velvet canopy, wondering whether he truly had her wrapped around his finger, or if it was the other way around.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa was sitting up against her pillows while Satin reclined lazily beside her, stretching out atop the length of her bed. Her eyes raked over his body, drinking in his tousled black raven curls, the smooth bare skin covering his slender frame, the dark trail of curls that led down to his groin. Even soft, his cock was impressive. It spurred all kinds of wayward thoughts and she flushed staring at it. She forced her gaze lower.

“I love your legs,” she praised, gazing at his smooth skin, almost entirely devoid of the hair she’d seen on other men’s limbs. “They’re as pretty as a girl’s.”

“Um, thank you?” he laughed—until he turned and met her hungry gaze. He looked away, shaking his head, his mouth curving into a smirk. She was insatiable. He moved and swung his legs over the bed, reaching down and pulling on his woolen breeches. He then stood and laced them up before pulling his linen tunic over his head.

She frowned. To her surprise, she now hated to see him go and wished he would stay with her through the night. This feeling only confused her. Her time with Satin was supposed to serve a specific purpose, to help her become more comfortable and experienced with intimacy, to show her everything she didn’t know. She’d rationalized it and made excuses, telling herself it was also for Jon’s benefit, to make up for the stilted and awkward lovemaking of their wedding night. She hadn’t been truly ready to open up to intimacy then, and now she was. Thanks to Satin.

Her love for Jon still burned brightly within her and every day she longed to have him back home with her. But she found that she now daydreamed about Satin almost as much as her husband. Her heart would beat a little faster whenever she heard someone speak his name or when she saw him sauntering across the castle courtyard. She would often tell herself he was only teaching her, that their intimate sessions didn’t mean anything other than that.

Even after all these months of being close to him, she still hadn’t gotten use to the way he made her feel. She didn’t want to explore the surge of her pulse when she thought of him, Sansa reminded herself again, or give a name to the mad beating of her heart whenever he looked at her. Or the way she constantly wanted to throw herself wantonly at him. Or the way she found herself inexplicably drawn to him as if by an invisible cord. It was impossible to care for two men at the same time. Wasn’t it?

While Satin was slipping on his doeskin boots, there was suddenly a knock on her chamber door. Sansa sat up straight and turned a panicked, wide-eyed stare in his direction. He raised a calming hand, his gaze as matter-of-fact as ever, before lifting a finger to his mouth, motioning her to be quiet. Almost silently, he gracefully stepped across the stone floor towards her adjoining bath. Another knock on her chamber door, and Satin disappeared from her sight.  

“Lady Stark?”

It was Maester Wolkan. Hurriedly sliding out of bed, she slipped on her robe of soft grey lambswool and went to open the door. A moment later she was indeed looking at the maester in his heavy robe of grey wool, trimmed with white fur, the Stark colors. Its large sleeves had pockets sewn inside, and from one of these hidden pockets he retrieved a scroll.

He bowed his head as he handed over the rolled parchment. “The king’s seal, Your Grace.”

She quickly broke the seal and opened the scroll. Immediately she recognized Jon’s hand.

_Sansa,_

_We have just arrived in White Harbor. I don’t want to delay here but Lord Manderly insists that we partake of his hospitality for at least a few days. I suppose it will give us ample time to rest. I expect to reach Winterfell in less than a month’s time._

_Jon_

She stared down at the parchment, reading the brief message for a second time. Her brows knitted and she frowned.

“Bad news, Your Grace?” the maester tentatively inquired.

Closing the scroll, she looked up, shaking her head. “No. It's good news. The king shall be home in a few weeks.”

Wolkan smiled. “That’s good to hear. Do you wish to send a message in reply?”

She was again staring down, reading Jon’s message for the third time. His words had contained no warmth, no feeling, nothing private intended only for her, not one word of affection. Instead, it was short and to the point, and felt so cold and impersonal to her. He’d been gone for so long… Had his feelings changed towards her? Instantly, she believed that to be false. Jon would never stop loving her. Never. But something still seemed off, somehow.

“Your Grace?”

Sansa emerged from her reverie. “No, I don’t think I’ll send one. It is likely he would already be gone by the time it reached him. Be sure to have some ravens ready to fly in the morning, though. I will be sending messages to our bannermen.”

Maester Wolkan bowed. “Very well, Your Grace. Anything else you may require before I return to the rookery?”

Giving him a small smile, she shook her head. “No, thank you.” She bid him good night, and he left her chambers.

Satin then traipsed back into the room. “So… Jon will be home soon.”

“Yes.” She stepped forward and offered him the scroll.

He took it from her and read the brief message. His stomach clenched, confusing thoughts swimming in his head. He both longed for and dreaded Jon’s return. To once again see the man he loved, to look upon his face, to look into his eyes, was all he had wanted since leaving Castle Black. But how would he react to finding his former steward was now present at Winterfell? Was _its_ steward? When he left the Night’s Watch, Jon had made it clear he had no real feeling for him. Further rejection would only be insufferable. To be in the daily presence of someone who could never love you would only be a torture. Wouldn’t it?

Satin looked up from the small piece of parchment and handed it back to her. Their eyes met and held. The innermost truths of her heart suddenly seemed uncovered before his intense gaze; a flush surged up her throat and into her cheeks. She felt scared to look at him, yet she couldn’t keep her eyes from his.

He swallowed. “I suppose this is good timing,” he said quietly. “In just a short while, Jon will be here, and you’re no longer in need of my… help.”

Her brows knitted. “What are you saying? You want this to stop?”

 _No,_ Satin admitted to himself. The confession made him feel even more confused. Falling in love with Jon had been easy, away up on the Wall, splintered from general society and its norms and expectations. How he felt about Sansa Stark was something he hadn’t wanted to look too closely at. It had been a simple arrangement, not wholly unlike others he’d had in his former life. Yet it had been so very different. She wasn’t ashamed to walk about the castle with him, out in the open, to associate with him like equals. She was genuinely interested in his life and never reacted with scorn or disgust when he spoke candidly. She never spoke to him with condescension or disdain, never treated him as though he was less than. On the contrary, she was always respectful and dignified towards him, compassionate and kind.  

“I feel our dalliance has come to its natural end,” he finally replied, keeping his face a stoic mask despite his guts twisting into knots. “You’ve grown into a more confident and assertive woman, comfortable in your own skin, with your own needs. There are no more lessons to give. Your husband is on his way home. You don’t need me anymore.”

 _Didn’t need him anymore?_ Sansa visibly trembled and she felt her face flush hot. No longer able to sustain his gaze, she lowered her eyes as they filled with tears. She was stunned with a sense of realization that was too difficult to accept and yet impossible to prevent, the consequences of which she couldn’t possibly conjecture, let alone comprehend.

Overwhelmed with emotion, she finally raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “But I love you.” She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat, shocked that those words had just burst out of her. Sansa waited with bated breath.

It took Satin a few moments to register what she had said. He was so caught off guard that all he could do was stare. He just kept looking at her, not believing his ears, but as he looked more closely into her eyes, what he saw there was more than just attraction and desire for him. What he saw there was undoubtedly love and affection. It was the last thing he’d wanted to see in her eyes, the last thing he’d wanted to hear from her lips. Wasn’t it? He loved Jon, and Jon alone. Didn’t he?

Sansa noticed the sudden change in Satin. He’d gone perfectly still at her words, his hands, his mouth, his eyes appeared frozen. The natural, graceful ease with which he carried himself was gone. Everything about his demeanor was on guard. As much as his reaction pained her, there was no running away from this. She’d said the words, and there was no taking them back. She just wanted him say something, anything.

“I said that I…” she whispered.

“I heard what you said.”

He’d spoken his reply very quietly but more harshly than he’d intended. When he saw a pained look flash across Sansa’s face, his guts twisted so fiercely he thought he might be sick. He didn’t want to hear the words again. He didn’t want to believe them. How could he? No one had ever loved him, not truly. The idea was preposterous. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head. When Satin opened them again, he felt as though he was gaining control over the situation.

“You don’t love me, m’lady,” he murmured in his soft, sweet voice. “In this moment you might think you do, but tomorrow you will feel differently. Trust me. You’ll realize that what occurred between us had nothing to do with love.”

His words cut through her like a knife. Sansa couldn’t have imagined just how much power he had to hurt her, but even his words hadn’t made her confession any less true. She knew he could see it in her eyes, the truth of her love, and she also knew that it terrified him. “But Satin…”

He gazed at her and wanted to take her in his arms so badly he actually ached from the need. But it was only attraction and desire, he told himself, not love. With a heavy heart, Satin bowed and offered a formal _“m’lady,”_ then turned and abruptly left her chambers. Sansa watched in disbelief, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than she had in a long time. As she felt a stab of pain deep in her soul, the tears she’d been choking back finally brimmed over and fell from her eyes.  

He tried to feel nothing, tried to believe that the cessation of their intimacy was natural and expected and would cause neither of them any lasting hurt. He tried in vain. All he knew was that Sansa, whom he most longed to see perpetually happy after all she had suffered in her life, had looked only pitifully heartbroken when he left her. The rapid heaving of her chest, the teary brightness of her blue eyes, the thickness of her voice, her trembling lips, had struck him like lightning, stunning his senses.

As he lay in his bed, staring up at the velvet canopy with steely resolve, Satin told himself that it was the best thing for them both to end what had started between them, to let it go. He didn’t want Sansa Stark’s love. He didn’t need Sansa Stark’s love. And now that Jon would soon be returning to Winterfell, it was better for her to not want him or need him either. He tried to believe this with all his heart. He tried in vain.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the castle abuzz with preparations for Jon's long-awaited return to Winterfell, both Satin and Sansa experience some eye-opening realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains ~~an embarrassing amount of~~ sexually explicit material.
> 
> For wightjon (@naughtysansa on Twitter) for her Name Day. ❤

It had been over two weeks since Jon’s message from White Harbor had reached Winterfell, and parties from other noble houses were steadily arriving at the castle to await the king’s return. A welcoming feast was being planned, ample supplies having been sent ahead from White Harbor; thirty casks of all manner of fish packed in salt and seaweed arrived courtesy of Lord Manderly, who would no doubt be traveling with Jon. Edmure Tully had arrived at the castle along with carts filled with wheels of white cheese and flagons of mead. Robin Arryn had gifted them great cuts of venison, quail, and boar. Ser Raynald Westerling, Robb’s former standard-bearer, rode through the main gates, wagons of apples and berries and pears behind him.

Accompanying this train of goods also came a steady flow of knights, squires, lesser lords and ladies of the North and the south, heralds, and musicians. Sansa had graciously welcomed them all to Winterfell from the High Seat of the Starks within the Great Hall. She suspected they wouldn’t have made such a journey simply for a feast, that it was only a pretext to discuss matters of great importance with Jon once he arrived. The thought made her anxious. He hadn’t even returned home yet and already they wanted something from him.

The evening of Ser Raynald’s arrival, Sansa took it upon herself to show him around the castle grounds. He spoke of his time with Robb during the War of the Five Kings, and she eagerly listened to all he had to say. She missed Robb dearly and her heart still pained her whenever her thoughts turned to how much he had suffered at the end. The Red Wedding had been avenged. The Starks had gotten their justice, and the North its independence. She would’ve rather had her brother.

Satin watched her from across the torch-lit courtyard, watched her smile up at the knight walking beside her. The young westerman was lean and strong, with a handsome face, tousled brown hair and beard. He felt a pang of jealousy deep in his gut. The only times he’d spoken with Sansa over the last fortnight were as steward and lady, their minimal conversations strictly adhering to castle duties and nothing more. He continued to gaze at her from where he stood in the doorway to the armory. Aye, she was beautiful, but there was something missing from the young queen that had not been missing two weeks before. Life, joy, a spark, though no one else appeared to notice.

There were times he thought he only imagined her saying she loved him. But she had, and there was now no doubt in Satin’s mind she’d meant those words, words that for the first time in his life he’d heard spoken honestly, words that begged for him to echo with his own. But he’d kept them locked away inside his heart, because he knew Sansa, knew that if he admitted he loved her, too—not just loved, but adored her, _craved_ her, needed her—she would only come up with a myriad of reasons for why they should continue this thing between them, why they shouldn’t let anything get in the way of their feelings for each other. But if she believed her love for him wasn’t returned, then he had a chance of coming out of this unscathed. As did she. Jon would soon be home.

Satin watched her disappear inside the Great Hall, Ser Raynald still at her side. The tightness at the back of his throat stung like bad liquor and he cursed the gods. He then turned away and continued with his duties, making his evening rounds, moving from the kitchens and glass gardens to the stables and kennels. He tried to keep his thoughts from straying to Sansa, but it was no use.

Life had been a lot less complicated in the Oldtown brothel. He’d known exactly who and what he was, he knew his place. Men and women came and went, and there was no mistaking or misunderstanding what was expected, even among his regulars who’d developed a fondness for him. Or at least for what he could do for them. He was being used, he knew, but at least it was simpler than this mess he had made for himself.

 _But was it better?_ That life had once been good enough for him, for it was all he had known or ever expected to know. Then he’d gone to the Wall, the dichotomy of his life there a shock to his senses. Yet there he had met Jon, and he found himself loving someone, needing someone more than he ever thought himself capable of needing anyone. But then Jon had walked away from him, left him behind without a single word of affection. Love wasn’t worth the pain, he’d told himself many times since, and he’d believed it. _Until now, until Sansa._

Where the thought had come from, Satin wasn’t sure, but he came to the sudden realization that the person he’d truly been hurting the most was himself. How much life and beauty would he be willing to deny himself based on the belief that it wasn’t worth the pain? Was the happiness that came with loving someone worth the pain he could experience? Now that he had seen the other side, had loved and lost and survived the heartbreak, he finally allowed himself to admit it. He was in love with Sansa. She’d heard anything and everything he had to say for himself and his former life, and still she’d looked him in the eyes and told him she loved him. Her heartfelt acceptance of him had lit a spark deep inside. For the first time in a long time, he’d felt like his old self was returning, his wholeness restoring. Her love had given him hope and assurance.

Suddenly, Satin felt more alive than ever. Hopefully his life was far from over. He still had so much to experience and to share. Sansa had taught him that. But would she still be willing to share it with him? Would she forgive him for hurting her? With his heart on his sleeve and his soul laid bare, he walked determinedly towards the Great Hall to find out.

*****

Sansa bid Bran a good night and retired to her bedchamber early, the evening feast for Winterfell’s guests still carrying on, the sounds of merry musicians and raucous laughter spilling out of the Great Hall’s doors and into the courtyard. Upon entering her chambers, she dismissed her handmaidens and the guard on her door, encouraging them to partake in the feast. Although reluctant, her guard gave in at her insistence and promised to return in a few hours. She wasn’t concerned. For the first time since the death of her father, there were no enemies to fear. There was no one inside or outside the castle who wished her harm.

After removing her blue-grey dress of soft lambswool, she climbed into her canopied four-poster and sat back against the pillows. Jon would be home any day now, and just the thought of seeing him again, of his arms wrapped around her and his kiss upon her lips, was enough to make her toes curl and goose bumps rise on her skin. She sighed, closing her eyes and daydreaming.

 _Satin wasn’t at the feast,_ the quiet voice inside her whispered. Sansa opened her eyes and sighed. Gazing about the room, at the fire crackling in the hearth, the candles burning on her bedside tables, she frowned, sinking into the mire of her thoughts. Satin was such a mixture of guarded strength and candid vulnerability, of caring and indifference, wit and seriousness, at times his words very much a contradiction to his actions, she wondered if she’d ever understand him.

For as long as she’d known him, he had been one of the few men who hadn’t approached her with ulterior motives, who hadn’t a game to play. He had always spoken exactly what was on his mind and pushed her into broadening her own. The things he’d endured in his young life were not so different from her own hardships. His stories, his arguments, his answers, they held a piercing honesty that had been as appealing as his artlessness. And she’d slowly, unknowingly, unexpectedly, fallen in love with him. But this love for him hadn’t made her love Jon any less, nor had knowing her love for Satin was unreciprocated made her feelings weaken. She loved them both, wanted them both.

 _Maybe I should speak with him,_ she told herself, imagining how it would play out. Sansa composed scenario after scenario—what she would say to him and how he would answer—none of them the same, but all of them painful. She wanted to demand explanations, tell him how much she thought he had loved her. There were times when she believed he had, and not just when he lay in her bed at night, when he showed a hunger for her. She remembered the way he would look at her from across a meeting table or a crowded room, soft longing gazes filled with affection. He did love her. He did! Didn’t he? Maybe she was wrong, had believed wrong.

 _Jon,_ that voice whispered. _He loves Jon. He said so himself._ She frowned deeper, her brows knitting. Her heart ached with sadness and confusion. _But I love Jon, too._

There was then a knock on her chamber door. She wondered if it was just her guard returning early and ignored it. Another knock came and she reluctantly admitted she would have to face whoever was on the other side. Thoughts of Maester Wolkan entered her mind and she groaned internally. Sliding out of bed, she walked across the stone floor and had reached the door just as another knock sounded.

Her voice was pleasant and formal as she opened it. “My apologies, I was…”

Her words trailed off when she saw Satin standing in the torch-lit hallway. Her body instantly tightened at the sight of him, her heart started pounding against her ribs, her breathing became uneven.

“I looked for you at the feast,” he murmured, his guts twisting fiercely. The sight of her made his heart swell. Satin felt sure it was real love. “But you weren’t there.”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Satin nodded, his throat tightening. “Sansa…”

She quickly motioned him inside her chambers, closing the door and then turning to face him. There was that look in his eyes that was telling her things he had never said with his mouth, things she desperately didn’t want to make the mistake of believing again. But hope was rearing its head and Sansa tried to fight it down. She filled with that wonderful, frightening feeling of standing on the edge of a precipice. Sensual thoughts of him swam inside her head, and she felt her body responding.

“I’ve been a fool,” he said. “I've been lying to myself, and to you. I suppose partly it was to spare you the consequences, but mostly it was for selfish reasons. Because I was afraid. This has never happened to me before.”

“What has happened to you?” she whispered with bated breath.

Satin licked his lips and gazed at her for a moment. “I’m in love with someone who feels the same. I just couldn’t face her feelings for me, or my own. Until now.”

Sansa let out the breath she’d been holding. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “You love me? Really and truly?”

“Really and truly,” he said, his eyes full of tenderness. “I do.”

“Say it again,” she breathed.

He smiled, his eyes sparkling and full of affection. “I love you, Sansa.”

Her heart swelled, full to bursting, and she couldn’t speak. She flew at him, her arms going around Satin’s neck as both his hands went under her ass, squeezing her through her silk shift and lifting her up, as she locked her legs around him. Her fingers were in his raven’s curls, her lips were on his. He walked them over to the bed, before sitting down, and she settled against his lap, straddling him. They kissed passionately and moaned down each other’s throats. His hands caressed her thighs, the hem of her shift sliding up around her hips. He saw the patch of auburn curls at the apex of her center, at the same time reaching his hands around to grasp her bare ass, and he realized she was wearing no smallclothes. He groaned and his growing erection became harder and thicker.

Sansa’s tongue started to slowly brush across Satin’s bottom lip, and they moaned when she entered his mouth. She pressed her body into his chest, and he held her tight against him, his fingers sinking into her hair. She pushed her tongue deep between his lips, sucked him, nipped him, lost her breath in feeling him respond just as hungrily. As she started to grind her hips against his swollen erection, he groaned. Every time he’d kissed her, she’d gotten better and better at kissing back. She was an expert now—a tongue-stroking, spine-melting, cock-torturing expert.

She felt wet desire dripping from her center, as he held onto her hips and drove her now throbbing nub back and forth over the hard cock bulging from his woolen breeches. Sansa’s hands went to Satin’s tunic, lifting it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Her hands went to his firm chest, running her fingers over his smooth skin, before dragging a finger across each nipple. He groaned and pulled away from her mouth to look at her, panting for breath, his hips thrusting into her. “Mmm… You liked that,” she grinned, feeling the press of his hardness against her center.

“Did I?” Satin teased back, as his hands moved to her hips and the hem of her silk shift.

Still grinning at him, Sansa lifted the shift from where it had pooled at her hips and off her body, tossing it to the stone floor beside the bed. She started grinding harder against his engorged cock, causing Satin’s head to swim and he lost all rational thought. If they didn’t stop this soon, he was going to finish inside his breeches. His mouth returned to her lips, passionately devouring them, and she stuck her tongue even deeper into his mouth.

The throbbing ache of her bud was now intolerable. Her hands went to his breeches, unlacing them, and after slightly lifting her hips off his lap, pulled them down, freeing his cock. He broke free of their kiss, to look at her in wonder at her growing assertiveness, at her taking control. She gazed down at the fat cock lying against his stomach, heavy, pulsing for her. His tip was wet with pre-cum, and she licked her lips.

“Satin, help me,” Sansa whispered, sounding almost desperate.

His swollen cock throbbed at her words and he lifted his hips off the bed, as she pulled his breeches down to his knees, before straddling him again. Satin brought his hand to Sansa’s face and gazed into her eyes. She opened her mouth—to ask, plead, _something_ —and his other hand went between her legs, his fingertips slipping through her soft folds, stroking her slick center. His deft fingers quickly found her hardening bundle, gathering her wetness with a firm, circling touch that lit her desire to a fever pitch.

Sansa started whimpering and rocking against his hand, her hands gripping his shoulders. She was panting, mewling, squirming on his fingers as she rocked her hips, his fingertips caressing her swollen bud until it became engorged and throbbing. “Oh…,” was all she could say, the same sound over and over again as waves of pleasure sparked at her center.

Her sounds made his cock ache. Satin then removed his hand, causing her to whimper again, and took hold of his swollen erection, firmly gripping the base of his thick shaft. She scooched her hips up closer, craving his hardness inside her sensitive walls. As she looked at him, she had the feeling that he was searching her face for something.

“Sansa?” he whispered, as he slowly started to drag the fat head of his engorged cock up and down her wet slit, teasing her.

She started panting and squirming on his lap. “What?”

Satin’s eyes were looking intently into her face. “Tell me what you want.”

Her hands left his shoulders, to caress the sides of his face. “You know what I want,” she whimpered. She then saw his eyes, blazing with desire, fill with love and affection. Her heart swelled.

“I want you to say it.” He gave her a challenging look, his dark eyes growing even blacker with passion.

She flushed. She was used to dirty talk from him—he was so confident with it—but still getting used to saying the words herself.

He smirked. “Do you want my cock?”

Eyes rolling to the back of her head, Sansa let out a cross between a groan and a sob. Her swollen nub throbbed desperately, and lust dripped from her hot core. “Yes, I want it. I want you.”

“Say the words, Sansa. Own them. There’s nothing to be shy or ashamed about speaking your desires aloud. And Jon will love it. Trust me.” His eyes glinted teasingly.

That lit a fire inside her, burning hotter than she already was. She then answered his challenging look with one of her own, determined to give as good as she got. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his ear. “I want your cock,” she whispered, her deepest desires coming to the fore. “I want it in my mouth. I want it in my pussy. I want it everywhere, all at once.”

Satin’s hips thrust involuntarily, and a moan escaped his throat. He moved his hand to guide her hips to his erection. Lifting slightly off his lap, she then lowered herself back down over him. Her ample wetness allowed the easy slide, and his hard cock was buried to the hilt inside her cunt. She was so tight, gripping him like a hot liquid fist, and he nearly came on the spot at the feel of her soft velvet warmth squeezing around him.

Sansa closed her eyes tight, and began rocking her hips over his, slowly at first, exploring the possibilities of this new position. Her inner muscles tightened and loosened around him as she slid up and down his rigid length, shuddering each time his fat cockhead passed over a sensitive spot inside. Once, twice, three times—the more it brushed against this sweet spot, the more she wanted it.

Filled with wanton lust, Satin gazed at her and smirked. “You really want me everywhere? All at once?”

She giggled, her solitary fantasies of enjoying both him and Jon coming forward in her mind. Licking her lips, she leaned forward and kissed him. “Maybe I want more,” she murmured teasingly against his mouth.

Satin was glowing from the increasing pleasure in his groin, made daring by the knowledge that his skill also brought her pleasure. He lifted a finger to his mouth, got it wet, and then moved it behind her.

“What are you—Oh!” Sansa’s eyes widened as he pressed his slick fingertip against her asshole, unbidden and unwanted memories rushing forward. She hastily pushed them away.

“I’m giving you more,” he answered huskily. He rubbed his wet finger over and over her sensitive flesh.

She relaxed into Satin’s touch, her body thrumming at the new pleasurable sensations building from his caresses. “You shouldn’t…,” she gasped. “That makes me…” Sansa closed her eyes and moaned.

“Makes you feel pleasure in places you think you shouldn’t?” he suggested, starting to thrust his cock into her harder.

“Yes,” she panted, but she kept rocking her hips. “But please don’t stop. Keep doing it.”

Satin grinned. Reaching further to coat his finger with her own wetness, he pushed against her back entrance, sliding his slick fingertip inside. Sansa groaned and clenched around him, but then her muscles relaxed, his finger sliding deeper. She thrust her hips over him faster, increasing their pleasure, and she slipped her hand between them, working her fingers over her swollen, throbbing bud. She was soon gasping in delight, the exquisite tension coiling tight at her center.

Satin’s body tightened in ecstatic agony as he thrust his cock upwards to meet her, his one hand digging into her hip while the other stroked inside her ass, as she surged towards her release. After just a few more strokes, lust-filled thoughts of Jon and Satin filling her head, her muscles clenched, and the tension suddenly burst. She was moaning loudly, her arms flying around his neck and gripping herself to him as she rode out her waves of pleasure on his lap.

Her body still surging with love and lust, Sansa forced him onto his back and straddled his hips, lowering herself down to his chest as he lay on the featherbed, and kissed him passionately. She moaned and writhed against him. She broke their kiss and slightly turned, glancing behind her to see Satin’s engorged cock, standing at attention, his hips thrusting involuntarily, straining for her. “You need release,” she murmured.

Satin grinned up at her. “How do you want it this time?”

Sansa shook her head, her fingers tenderly caressing his jawline. “How do _you_ want it? It’s not just about me.”

Blinking, he stared for a moment as she gazed at him adoringly, thanking the gods for bringing someone like her into his life. Then he moved forward, his hands gently gripping her and turning them until she lay beneath him. She smiled up at him and started to spread her legs, before he suddenly flipped her over so that she was lying on her stomach. Sansa’s eyes went wide and the aching throb in her center returned. Satin stared at the skin of her legs and back, and his eyes zeroed in on the scars, remnants of her former captivity and marriage, no doubt. He pushed his dark thoughts away as he brushed his hands over her, caressing her, and then moving down her soft, round ass, running his hands down the backs of her thighs.

“You are so beautiful, Sansa,” he whispered. She whimpered, burying her face into her arms, wet desire once again pooling at her center. Satin couldn’t wait any longer and then moved to hover over her, bringing one hand underneath her to lift her hips off the mattress and his other hand gently holding her upper back down.

Her muscles suddenly clenched, a mix of nervous uncertainty and excitement. At one time, this position would’ve filled her with a nauseous dread, but Satin was a different man. And she was a different woman now. She wanted to rid her mind of the Bolton monster forever, wanted to replace those memories with new ones, prove him wrong. He wasn’t a part of her anymore. Memory of him would no longer control her mind, control her body.

As her legs parted slightly, Satin then guided his swollen cock to her entrance, working himself into the tight heat of her dripping wet cunt. “Oh gods, Sansa…,” he groaned, as he lowered himself over her back, placing his hands on the mattress.

She moaned in response, and as his cock stroked the sensitive spot in the front wall of her cunt with each downward thrust, she felt the exquisite tension build until it seemed like every muscle in her body was straining for the relief, and the knuckles of her hands had gone white as they gripped the linen sheets in front of her.

And as Satin watched, wide-eyed, as Sansa snaked one hand between her legs to stroke herself, he felt his own tension in his groin build, tightening in his balls, the delicious pressure burning through him. Then wildly explicit language was pouring from his mouth, littered with her name and descriptions of her cunt. He hardened and swelled inside her. Her own pleasure burst, and she was coming hard, moaning and crying out. Her clenching muscles and her cries brought him to climax, and his loud moans filled the bedchamber as he quickly pulled his throbbing cock out of her cunt and pumped thick ropes of his hot seed onto her glistening skin. He then collapsed onto the mattress beside her.

*****

Some time later, they lay side by side in comfortable silence. But Sansa’s mind was filled with confusing thoughts of Satin and Jon. She would have to tell Jon the truth, but how would he react? She remembered him nearly beating Ramsay to death. The look on his face when she’d told him of her near-rape in the King’s Landing mob. When she had told him of her last encounter with Sandor Clegane. When she spoke of her wedding night to Tyrion. The look on his face when she told him of Littlefinger’s advances towards her while in the Vale, whenever he saw Littlefinger speaking to her. And now that she was his wife, she knew without a doubt that Jon wouldn’t hesitate to kill for her.

 _What will happen to Satin?_ she worried to herself. He’d once confessed his own love for Jon, and she knew there must’ve been some level of respect and friendship between them for Jon to have made him his steward and squire. But was that all it was? She wondered…

Memories of the past several months swirled in her head, conversations with Satin where Jon was discussed, things he’d said that she had once not given much thought to seeming like vague insinuations to her now. She was starting to suspect there was more to the story than what she’d been told, but for some reason Satin had wanted to keep the whole truth from her. She was determined to find out. He may not confess when confronted, so perhaps she should go about it an indirect way.

Satin gazed over at her, at the knitting of her brows. His stomach clenched nervously. “What are you thinking about? Jon?”

Sansa thought for a moment and then turned on her side, propping herself up on her elbow. “About you, actually.”

He grinned. “What about me?”

“I’m just… curious,” she replied wryly. “You like women and men.”

Pursing his lips, he nodded.

She smirked. “So, you like pussy…”

“I love pussy,” Satin purred, his dark eyes sparkling. “Pussy feels _so good._ It’s so wet and soft. There’s really nothing like it.”

Thrusting her tongue in her cheek, Sansa blushed. She cleared her throat. “But you like cocks, too,” she said in a curious tone.

Satin nodded agreeably. “That I do.”

“Do you like one more than the other?” she probed.

“No,” he shook his head. “They both feel good. They’re just different.”

She thought for a moment. “And you really have no preference?”

He chuckled. “Well, right now I prefer you,” he teased softly. She nodded, saying nothing in reply. Sighing, he sat up. “In my experience, sex with women is usually more tender, intimate, considerate. And with men, well they don’t have to be so nice about it. It’s sweaty and rough, and they get to work out whatever they’ve got pent up inside while getting off at the same time. Both can be good and exciting and not boring in the slightest.”

Sansa hummed. “So, with men, did you usually do the… fucking, or the other way around?”

He gave her an amused look. “Usually I was the one getting fucked,” he answered candidly. “But it almost always depended on what the other person wanted.”

“And what did Jon want?” she hurled at him, eyeing him carefully for a reaction.

“Well, he mostly wanted—” Satin abruptly stopped talking. He turned and stared at her and saw a small look of triumph in her eyes. She’d caught him out. Guilt twisted his stomach. At first, before he truly knew her, he couldn’t tell her because she was Jon’s wife and she could’ve reacted badly, evicted him from Winterfell, or worse. But the longer time went on and the more he grew to like her, he still hadn’t wanted to confess this about Jon. Again, he’d been a fool.

She pursed her lips. “I’d suspected, but I wasn’t sure. I had to be sure.” A plethora of thoughts and feelings welled up inside her. “And you love him?”

He sighed with a sad smile. Satin’s thoughts about Jon were so conflicting lately, he sometimes didn’t know what to make of them. “I did...”

Her brows knitted. “You don’t anymore?”

“A part of me will always love Jon,” he told her reflectively. “But it feels different now. I’m very much in love with you at this moment. It’s difficult to remember what it felt like to be wrapped up in someone else. The truth is, I haven’t seen him for two years now, not since he rode off with you from Castle Black. I loved him, and he didn’t love me, not the way I wanted him to.”

Sansa wasn’t so sure of that. She leaned back against the pillows, lost in thought. Perhaps Satin didn’t know Jon like she did. Her husband wasn’t one to simply admit his feelings. He was more likely to pretend they weren’t there, suppress them, deny them. He was a man sealed up tighter than a drum, and his hand would usually need to be forced. If she hadn’t proposed the marriage alliance, she believed he would’ve convinced himself to be perfectly content if they simply carried on as normal, despite how he truly felt for her deep down.

Satin reached for her, pulling her against him, wrapping his arms around her, this time in no hurry to dress and sneak away to his chambers. He breathed in her comforting scent, allowing his mind to drift off. Sansa lay there staring up at the dove-grey velvet canopy, her fingers gently combing through his raven’s curls, wondering about Satin and herself and Jon and what the future may bring once he came home. Maybe there could be a solution to all of this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns home to a surprising political situation and a very different wife than the one he'd left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexually explicit material.

The sun was almost setting when Jon rode through the winter town to the sound of ringing bells. Smallfolk had gathered on either side of the road, men and women and children alike, cheering and bowing their heads when he rode by with the Stark banners dancing in the wind above him. The northerners looked upon him with reverence and pride and affection. He was their returning king, their hero and champion. He didn’t feel like a hero and hadn’t wanted to return home like one. But that didn’t matter—all that mattered now was what she would think of him.

Sansa steadily moved toward the main gates, Bran beside her being pushed by Maester Wolkan. The castle courtyard was a bustle of noise and controlled chaos. Winterfell’s household was running about, the loud ding-dong of the bells in everyone’s ears. Her stomach was in one tight knot of anticipation and she tried hard to control her breathing, the pounding of her heart beneath her ribs. As she approached the gate, she found a receiving line already being formed, spotted Lord Edmure and Ser Raynald standing alongside the northern lords and ladies. Lyanna Mormont gave her a look of barely concealed excitement, and Sansa smiled nervously.

Satin watched the courtyard display from above in the covered bridge connecting the armory to the Great Keep. A garrison of Stark cavalry then rode through the gates, Jon riding just behind them. His heart swelled at the sight of him. His gaze quickly fell upon Sansa standing in her place at the front of the rest of the household and Winterfell’s guests. She had proposed an idea two days before, one that he at first had thought mad. But the more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea became. And now having laid eyes on Jon, the possibilities of her proposal sent a sudden thrill surging through him. He could only hope she was right, and that Jon would be willing. It wouldn’t be long before he found out. With his lips curving into a smirk, he turned and walked along the bridge back toward the Great Keep.

As Jon came off his horse, those standing around the courtyard bowed to him, but he only had eyes for one person. With bated breath and a pounding heart, Sansa gazed at him, at the intense look upon his face, the mix of emotions flickering across it—sadness, happiness, worry, relief. Yet their joy in seeing each other again was unbounded, and he rushed forward with a desperate longing as she flew into his arms. They held each other tightly, unable to speak as they choked back their tears, the world around them fading away. He buried his face in her red hair and breathed in her scent, his warm breath in her ear sending a shiver down her spine. She quivered, leaning into him, and held him tighter.

They pulled out of the embrace to look at each other. Her fingertips traced the line of his bearded jaw from his ear down to his chin. He gazed at her mouth, her soft lips. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in his brown eyes. He twined his fingers in her hair. She touched his neck, a soft caress. He looked into her eyes, the deep Tully-blue. She ran a finger along his bottom lip. He kissed her forehead and gently grasped her waist. Her fingers slip up his forearm until they came to the crook of his elbow, then moving up to feel the muscled swell of his upper arm. They leaned forward, their hearts pounding. Their lips almost touched, and then he kissed her, lightly, before pulling back. She moved forward and kissed him soundly, claiming his mouth. Her kiss, full of passion and promise, surprised him. His hand went to her back, caressing her spine up to her neck, holding her against him. She felt so warm, so sweet.

Sansa then broke their kiss. “I missed you,” she whispered.

“I can tell,” he smiled. “I missed _you,_ ” he sighed. “So, so much.”

Suddenly they felt everyone’s eyes on them and remembered where they were. Sansa flushed and stepped back, turning to see Arya, who’d been standing off behind him, now moving toward her. The sisters embraced warmly, before Jon and Arya turned to Bran. While servants walked their horses to the stables, Sansa watched as her husband then went on down the receiving line to greet the other lords and ladies. 

The welcoming feast was a grand affair, with many comments from Winterfell’s guests calling it the wedding feast that should have been. Ten courses were served, with flagons of mead and sweet golden wine to wash it all down. Some musicians strolled around the Great Hall, up the center aisle and between tables, piping and fiddling, while others remained near the head table playing the flute and high harp. One of the singers was a young man who’d arrived several days before from White Harbor, dressed in the blue-green color of House Manderly, who was called Bluefin the Bard. He sang love songs in a beautifully loud and clear voice, high and sweet.

Jon and Sansa sat side by side at the high table upon the dais, Bran and Arya and Davos and Brienne beside them. Serving girls kept their cups filled while trays of sweets were passed along the table—lemon cakes, blueberry tarts, honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, pears poached in strongwine. While both leaning forward to take a cake from a passing tray, their arms touched, the contact making them tingle with awareness.

In his mind, Jon imagined covering her hand with his, feeling her warm skin beneath his palm. His skin warmed at the thought. Yet an awkwardness had begun to hang in the air between them, sitting side by side and unable to find anything to talk about. After a few inquiries into each other’s well-being, the general going-on of Winterfell and his journey from White Harbor, a silence had pervaded. There was so much he wanted to tell her, _needed_ to tell her. But a merry feast wasn’t the time or the place for such conversation. And all he could think of was touching her like he had out in the courtyard and hating himself for it, knowing as soon as he told his tale she’d never look at him the same, let alone allow him to ever touch her again.

Sansa sat in confused silence, her stomach in knots. Her conversation with Jon had become stilted, sitting there in front of hundreds of onlookers. The din inside the Great Hall was loud, making intimate talk difficult. She had wanted to broach the topic of Satin, who had agreed to be absent until the right time, to at least let Jon know of his appointment as steward. But it was clear that other things were weighing heavily on his mind. The subject could wait.

To Sansa’s disappointment, Jon hadn’t made any move to touch her or kiss her again. She wanted to just reach out and touch him herself, to take a wife’s prerogative and slide her hand through his or lean her head on his shoulder, but something about his stiff demeanor caused her to hold back. But despite this she couldn’t escape how much his nearness affected her. She could smell his scent; she could feel the warmth radiating from his body; she could still glance at him and study the straight line of his nose, the curl of is dark eyelashes, the smooth beard over the curve of his jaw.

Jon turned to glance at her, and their eyes met and held. Sansa’s breath became shallow in her throat, and she couldn’t turn from the gaze of his deep brown eyes. A strong sense of longing pierced her. His gaze darkened as he looked at her, and for a moment she thought he would kiss her. She waited, her heart pounding, hoping he would lean towards her. But then the moment passed, and he’d made no such attempt. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

“Let’s retire to the lord’s chamber,” she murmured, still gazing at him.

“The feast will likely carry on for several more hours,” he hesitated. “We shouldn’t disappoint our guests, not after many of them traveled so far and with generous gifts.”

She shrugged. “They’ll enjoy themselves whether we’re here or not. And I don’t want to be with them. I want to be with you. Alone.”

Surprise and regret, remembered awkwardness of their wedding night, longing, and a dozen other emotions welled up inside him. He opened his mouth to speak, but they were interrupted by Lords Manderly, Glover, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Tallhart, and Ladies Mormont and Dustin. Jon and Sansa stared at them standing before the dais. Some of them clearly had had quite a bit to drink.

“We need to speak with you, Your Grace,” spoke Lord Glover.

“I’m sure whatever you want to discuss can wait, my lord,” he remarked kindly.

But they only shook their heads. “No, Your Grace,” insisted Lady Lyanna. “It needs to be now, before the southerners get to you first.”

The others nodded agreeably, their expressions serious.

Jon sighed. “All right. I’ll meet you in my council chambers.” He then turned to his wife. “Do you want to come with me? Hear what they have to say?”

“I already know what they want to say,” she said crossly, annoyed by their interruption. “They want you to stay here, in the North, in Winterfell. The southern lords want you to set up a capital in a more convenient location.”

“A capital?” he scoffed. “I have no authority in the south. They can figure that out themselves.”

Sansa stared at him and sighed. “They’re going to bend the knee and declare you King of the Seven Kingdoms. They’re only waiting on emissaries from Dorne and Storm’s End to arrive. Then they’ll each present their case as to why the new capital should be in their kingdom.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “I don’t want to be king,” he gritted. “The only claim I may have had was based on Rhaegar Targaryen’s name, but there is no more Iron Throne. There is no House Targaryen. That line is dead. Let my claim die with it.”

“They’re not going to bend because of Rhaegar,” she explained. “Not entirely, anyway. And they don’t want you to rule in the Targaryen name. They want you as you are—Jon Stark. They say you won by conquest, but mostly they’re going to bend because they’re _choosing_ you to lead them.”

“Choosing me means choosing you,” he pointed out. “They’re choosing House Stark.”

She smirked. “Yes, I think that might have a little something to do with it. But you’re just as much a Stark as I am. Together, we’re difficult to defeat.”

Jon fought back a grin and stood up from his chair. He gazed down at her, conflicting emotions still battling inside. “Don’t wait up for me,” he finally spoke, his throat growing tight. “I’ll see you in the morning.” With a quick departing kiss on her cheek, he walked away from the table.

Sansa turned to stare after him with knitted brows, watching him move toward the dimly-lit gallery that connected the Great Hall to the Great Keep. _In the morning?_ She wouldn’t see him again until the morning? Why wouldn’t he meet her in the lord’s chamber? Didn’t he want to be alone with her? A knot of frustrated disappointment grew inside her chest, beneath her ribs, and settled in the pit of her stomach.

*****

Jon walked along the torch-lit hallway, heading for the family tower. A few guards were posted here and there, but it was quiet in this part of the castle. No sounds coming from the feast in the Great Hall could be heard. When he neared the bottom of the stairs, he heard a door opening. Just when he reached the connecting hallway across from the stairwell, he saw the back of a head, a quick glimpse of shining black raven’s curls, before the door closed and the figure disappeared behind it. His heart lurched, his stomach twisting instantly.

It couldn’t be him, Jon told himself as he turned away and made for the tower stairs. Satin was dead, along with the rest of the Night’s Watch. He’d left them all behind, left them to die. But what if…? Was it possible…? Closing his eyes, he shook his head, trying to shake these thoughts away, not wanting to think about it anymore, at least for the moment.  

When he reached the top of the stairs, he came face to face with the guard standing outside the lord’s chamber door. The guard bowed his head and uttered, “Your Grace.” He nodded in reply. Jon stood in front of the door, staring at it. No good could come from keeping secrets, from hiding what he had done. But no harm could come from waiting until tomorrow. He walked away from the door and moved down the hall to the warm chambers on the other end, the rooms that had once belonged to Catelyn Stark. A smirking guard greeted him at his door. With a silent nod, Jon entered.

His heart gave a lurch of another sort when he found Sansa in his bedchamber. She was sitting on his four-poster in her soft silk shift, upright against some pillows, her slender, smooth legs curled under her bottom as if she were still a young girl. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes blue and serious. The fingers of one hand played nervously with the other. She was achingly pretty sitting on the bed like that, a sweet portrait of femininity. To his former agony and present delight, Jon had never met another woman he enjoyed looking at quite so much. Nothing felt as right as when Sansa was near him.

“Sansa,” he breathed, not having moved further into the room. “We have to talk. There’s much I need to tell you—so much that happened when I was in King’s Landing—things you need to know.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I had a lot of time to think while you were gone.” She chewed her bottom lip. “About how I feel, and what I want.”

He frowned, lowering his eyes from hers. Jon knew they’d left things slightly unresolved between them, remembering their dutifully constrained wedding night, remembering his declaration of love just before he rode off to battle and her hesitancy to say anything in return. A sinking feeling rose up to weigh him down. If she didn’t want them to continue as husband and wife, at least outside the realm of duty, then perhaps that was best. She wouldn’t want to after she heard what he had to say for himself, anyway. But then he remembered their earlier reunion in the courtyard, and the way she’d kissed him…

“You’re right—we need to talk,” she agreed. “I have a lot I want to say, but maybe now is not the right time.” Sansa moved down the mattress on her knees, and he walked to her and took her hands. Her palms were warm and soft. “I missed you, Jon.”

“I missed you, too.” She looked so… nervous and excited that his heart nearly stopped. “I love you,” she whispered. “And not as a sister or a friend.”

He reached for her, his hands grasping her arms, trying to take in what she’d said. She loved him? She loved him, and he was grinning at her like an idiot. Chills shot through him as her cheeks deepened in color and her eyes darkened. These little signs of her passion exciting him, he felt his cock stirring fast, thickening, rising. The once-shameful lust that had tormented him for nearly half his life was surging through his veins, and it was shameful no longer.

Her gaze locked on his, sending a jolt through him. She then pressed her hand to his heart. “I love you, Jon. I want you.”

Sansa’s hand moved up to caress his face, her power to arouse him almost taking his breath away. Her words were all it took for his erection to become fully rigid, to begin to throb and ache. Her fingertips slid around his wrists, under the sleeves of his tunic. A shiver he couldn’t control vibrated down his spine, straight to the swollen head of his cock. He could already feel the pre-cum.

“Talking can wait until later,” she insisted, her fingers going to the lacings of his leather jerkin to undo them.

The groan that rolled from the back of his throat wanted to contradict her, to stop this and make her listen to what he had to say before laying with him again, but her vulnerable seduction was wreaking havoc on his better judgment. Her eyes were sparkling, pleading on the verge of tears.

She licked her lips, gazing into his face. “I won’t be able to sit still for thinking of you. I won’t be able to sleep. My body aches to have you inside it again.”

“Sansa,” he choked, eyes going wide. He’d never imagined her saying such a thing to him. His hand lifted to stroke her face.

She grinned, her hands making quick work of his lacings and pushing the jerkin aside and down his arms. “I want you so much, I don’t know which part of you I want to touch first.”

He gulped, staring at her in wonder as she wriggled her shift upward. Grabbing hold of its hem, she lifted the shift up and over her head, tossing it to the floor to join his jerkin. Her breasts were bare, their nipples flushed pink and tightening, and he licked his lips at the way they’d bounced when she’d thrown the garment. Excitement surged through his cock, more pre-cum jetting from its tip. Her long red hair was tousled, her mouth wet. She ran her hands up her stomach and to her chest, rubbing them around and over her hardened nipples. His cock throbbed in response.

Not wanting to waste another moment, Jon began wrenching off the rest of his clothes and nearly fell over when yanking off his boots. Sansa giggled as she watched his erection bounce up and down at his groin. Their eyes then met and held. He wanted to be inside her, wanted to fuck her until she screamed, until he was pumping her full of his seed. He felt like she was suddenly turning him into an animal, raw and uncivilized.

“Stay,” she commanded once he was fully naked.

She moved off the bed toward him, breathing hard, more aroused. His chest felt tight with anticipation as she stood in front of him. He took her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. Her hands moved to his muscled chest, feeling his strength and power. He pulled her harder against him. His hands were at the small of her back, warm and sensual, and then moved lower to roam her soft, round ass. She tasted so good, like heaven, and they moaned into each other’s mouths. Their tongues mingled, their passion built.

Sansa could feel his hardness pressed on her stomach, her center throbbed, and she squirmed in his arms, trying to rub her nipples against his firm chest. She reached down and cupped his balls.

“Oh, gods,” he groaned, suddenly so close to coming the hairs on his arms stood up. He panted for breath, trying to control his responses. “Sansa…”

“I want to do this,” she breathed. “So, don’t stop me.”

His mind, a heady fog of mounting pleasure, wasn’t clear enough to guess at what she meant. But then she was kneeling in front of him on the white bearskin rug, running her hands up and down the backs of his legs. Sansa tipped her head to the side and took one of his balls into her mouth, licking and then sucking it. Jon tried to say her name, but all that came out was a breathless groan. He couldn’t believe how good it felt. Goose pimples had risen on his arms, his hair standing on end, his eyes rolling.

“You’re going to make me come,” he finally tried to warn her.

“Good,” she purred, and switched to the pulsing flesh on the other side.

It was all he could do to hold on, reduced to digging his nails into his palms to stave off an impending climax. When Sansa finally took his cock into her mouth, Jon felt like he could cry from the tormented pleasure of it. Her tongue was licking him all over, her suction strong enough to send bolts of pleasure shooting up his spine.

“Don’t,” he gasped as she ran the tip of her tongue over the throbbing crest of his swollen cockhead. “I can’t take much more. I want to come inside you.”

She removed her mouth, though her hand still gripped his thick shaft. “Don’t worry, you will,” she teased. She then squeezed hard enough to make his pulse throb. “But I want you to come in my mouth first,” she murmured. “Do you want to come in my mouth, Jon?”

With wide eyes, he stared down at her, at himself, hard and swollen and trapped in her hand. Her tongue curled out to lick up the now steady flow of pre-cum. The sight was incredibly intimate—her mouth and his erection and her throat moving as she swallowed the taste of him. She then opened her mouth wide and sucked his cock inside.

Sansa loved his taste—salty and sweet at the same time—and his scent that was so distinctly _Jon._ Again and again, she took the swollen head into her mouth while her hand worked up and down his thick length. She’d loved the idea of sucking him, the fantasies that had played in her mind. She loved it even more now that she was doing it. She loved his groans of pleasure, sending shocks of her own sparking at her hot, wet center.

Jon was going to lose it. Her mouth was so wet and soft and tight around his cock. He felt his release build to the bursting point. His balls tightened and tingled. His cock swelled and throbbed. Thrusting his hips, as her mouth sucked hard around his swollen head, waves of pleasure burst at his groin, shooting down his legs and up his spine. Jets of his hot seed spurted out the tip of his cock and into her mouth, his mind a heady fog of euphoria.

As Sansa milked the last few drops of his release, she shuddered and marveled in the pleasure she could give him. She felt confident, she felt powerful. He looked down at her, his eyes blazing with passion. He then lifted her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the mattress. She slid back until her head rested on a pillow and he climbed onto the bed after her.

“Spread your legs for me,” he said hoarsely.

Sansa spread them, her cunt pink and swollen and glistening wet. Jon started breathing hard again. She hadn’t allowed him to do this on their wedding night. There was nothing he wanted more. For so many years of his life—the longing to have her like this was almost a desperation. He grasped her thighs and lowered his head between them.

Jon slid the tip of his tongue through the slit of her swollen folds. Her silky flesh parted, the sweetness of her juices coating his tongue as he stroked the sensitive flesh. Sliding his hands beneath her hips, she lifted herself to meet him, and he worked his tongue from her swollen bud to the heated opening of her cunt, feeling the snug entrance clench against him as he tried to push inside her heated depths.

Her whimpers made his cock begin to respond once more, the way she thrust up her hips and grabbed his head. The way her hard little nub throbbed against his tongue. Staring up at her as she pushed her fingers through his hair, Jon licked his lips, held her intense gaze, and then stroked his tongue quickly through her swollen slit as her moans of pleasure filled the chamber. The spice of her filled his senses, the sweet, hot taste of her making him want more.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat and then she gasped as his tongue slid through the sensitive folds of her pussy. Her swollen bud throbbed in demand of release, sending a rush of desperate need through her body, tightening her nipples. As Jon’s gaze held hers, his tongue working through her cunt, licking and stroking, she was sure she couldn’t bear the pressure building at her center.

Jon’s tongue pierced her entrance, pushing inside her, stroking along hidden sweet spots that flared in heated response. His lips covered the hard nub at the apex of her slit, surrounding it with the wet heat of his mouth.

“Jon,” she whimpered, grinding her pussy against his mouth. “Oh, gods, Jon, please.”

Her sounds made his cock ache. He licked her until she writhed with longing, until her nails dug into his shoulders and her breath came in desperate pants. He then sucked her swollen bud between his teeth and stroked against it hard with his tongue. Sansa cried out, her body arching off the bed, her hands fisting in his hair, and she came and came and came. Waves of sharp ecstasy raced through her while his lips suckled, his groans of pleasure vibrating against her flesh, and her cries filled the bedchamber.

Finally, she went limp, unclenching her hands and releasing his curls, falling back on the mattress. Her legs shook with small tremors and her center still ached for him, with a desperate need to be filled by him. “Get up here,” she panted, writhing on the bed. “I want your cock inside my pussy.”

Again, Jon stared in wonder. Hearing those words made his blood pound in his ears, made his cock throb. He hadn’t ever expected this kind of talk from her. He was trying to reconcile the woman in front of him and the wife of his wedding night and failing. He could only obey. He crawled over her, his body tight and shaking with need, his cock once again hard as iron.

Sansa spread her legs as he settled between her hips and then lifted her knees to lock him against her. “Inside me,” she whispered, her darkened eyes holding his. “Now. Slide it in nice and slow.”

“You’re fucking killing me,” Jon swore. He then slid his cock in slowly, a long guttural moan escaping his throat. Pushing into her was better than anything he’d ever experienced. She was soft velvet around him, warm and wet and tight. When he was finally buried to the hilt inside her cunt, her arms came sweetly around his back.

“I love you,” she murmured as she hugged him to her. “No matter what, I love you.”

Her words brought tears to his eyes, a lump to this throat. “I love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter what.”

She smiled up at him, her gaze full of tenderness and affection. Jon’s hips began to thrust, slowly at first and then harder when Sansa begged him to. He pounded into her, pleasure surging, his balls drawing up, every stroke so good he could hardly bear it. The way her cunt clenched around him made him gasp. He needed her like he needed his heart to pound, like he needed air to breathe. Sansa was mewling, pleading, her skin flushed all over.

“Fuck, yes,” Jon groaned, and then dipped his head to her breast, sucking a hardened nipple into his mouth.

A bright burst of sensual pleasure shot directly to the throbbing bud at Sansa’s center, making her muscles tighten. The pleasure then became overwhelming as it lit her entire body from inside out. She closed her eyes, letting the sensations of Jon’s hard cock wash over her until she couldn’t take anymore. The tension soon burst, and she screamed when her climax ripped through her, as her body clamped down on Jon as he thrusted faster, harder.

Jon’s own climax hit him like a sledgehammer, an explosion of pleasure surging through his body. He cried out from the intensity of it. Thick ropes of his release shot from his cock in long, squeezed bursts—so hot, so copious, it was as if he hadn’t already come not so long before. He continued to thrust through the ecstasy, coating her inner walls as she gripped his cock in a steady rhythm that made him see stars, until collapsing onto the mattress. For a long while, they lay side by side in a quiet wave of contentment, enveloped physical bliss and an emotional connection so strong it brought tears to their eyes.

Sansa’s fingertips were sliding gently up and down the smooth, slick skin of his back, languidly caressing him. She gazed at him, though her eyes felt heavy and tired. “I love it when you come inside me,” she murmured sleepily, lifting her leg over his hip and snuggling closer. “I love how it feels.”

Jon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Who was this woman and what did she do with Sansa Stark? She loved it when he came inside her—as if he’d ever be able to stop himself, as if anything other than filling her up deep inside had ever felt so right. He hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he held his love in his arms, knowing that hard truths would soon have to be told.

**Author's Note:**

> [Map of Winterfell](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/File:Winterfell_map.png)
> 
> [Map of Westeros](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/e/e7/Map_of_westeros.jpg)


End file.
